


I hate you so much it makes me sick

by anonymous_scapegoat



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - 10 Things I Hate About You (1999) Fusion, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Exy (All For The Game), F/M, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Katelyn is a fully realized character goddamnit, M/M, Rated T for language, Underage Drinking, content warning: google translated French, katelyn wears the pants, ok ok uhhhh actual tags, this is a world where homophobia doesn't exist because i'm gay and i say so, whaaat? another incomplete longfic? when you have 2 other incomplete fics running already?? yep!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24549760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymous_scapegoat/pseuds/anonymous_scapegoat
Summary: Aaron and Katelyn have been sneaking around under the pretense of tutoring sessions for months now, and Katelyn has, if you will pardon her French, fucking had it. She wants desperately to be open about their relationship, but there’s something standing in their way: Aaron has a twin brother, Andrew, and Aaron can't date anyone until Andrew does. The problem therein, besides everything, is that Andrew is horrible. Standoffish, rude, and seemingly dispassionate about everything in the world except violence, there isn’t a boy in school brave enough to look at him.Until Katelyn lays eyes on cute new kid Neil Josten, who is apparently infinitely fearless and twice as stupid.
Relationships: Katelyn/Aaron Minyard, Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 106
Kudos: 314





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Prom isn’t dating,” Katelyn says mildly. She does not point out that prom stacked on top of daily French study sessions that more often than not culminate in them Frenching between the library stacks may, in some senses of the word, and in certain cultures, equate to dating. Aaron doesn’t either, but she can see him biting back the argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i tried so damn hard to get this chapter over 2000 words. ah well. enjoy xoxo

“Je ne sais pas pourquoi tu ne veux pas m'emmener au bal.” 

Katelyn had said the words bluntly, hoping to get a response, but had not expected one so violent. Aaron’s knee smacks against the bottom of the graffitied study table in a full-bodied flinch hard enough to earn a glare from the librarian across the room. His face colors immediately. 

Aaron begins to answer, but doesn’t get very far before Katelyn says, “En français s'il vous plaît.”

“Non,” Aaron hisses. “Je veux. It’s… It’s not as simple as wanting.”

Katelyn purses her lips at the switch to English, but doesn’t comment. 

“ _You_ know.” Aaron sighs heavily. “I shouldn’t even be with you right _now_.” 

“Because Nicky won’t let you date.” It isn’t a question. Aaron answers anyway. 

“Until Andrew does,” he confirms. “But Andrew is intolerable.” 

Katelyn has rarely interacted with Andrew, but knows of the violence Aaron’s twin is renowned for - he’s just this month returned to school after a four-month stint in juvie for punching some guy's lights out and then some. “Intolerable” feels insufficient. 

“Prom isn’t dating,” Katelyn says mildly. She does not point out that prom stacked on top of daily French study sessions that more often than not culminate in them Frenching between the library stacks may, in some senses of the word, and in certain cultures, equate to dating. Aaron doesn’t either, but she can see him biting back the argument. 

“Prom isn’t dating,” he repeats instead, rolling the words around in his mouth to see how they taste. _Sour_. “To Nicky it is.” 

“Je voudrais aller au bal avec toi,” Katelyn says. She has been careful to keep her tone level - Aaron is skittish enough that if she seems too insistent he will retreat behind walls she has spent all semester tearing down even as they memorized conjugations of “être” - and she continues to do so. It is not a call to action. It is a statement. A toe dipped in the deep end of the pool. 

“And I want to take you,” Aaron says, voice just as calm. "But-"

“Good,” Katelyn says. Like it’s settled. At Aaron’s baffled look, she plows onward. “So, we need to find Andrew a date.” 

Katelyn’s eyes do not leave Aaron’s, which is why she does not miss the flash of humor fading into incredulity on his face, leaving his jaw slack. She almost laughs.

“I- what?” he asks. 

Katelyn takes Aaron’s hand under the table. Always under, never in plain view. Sitting across the table, not too close. This is getting old. 

“It’s a solution,” she says. “The only one, it sounds like.”

“Yeah,” Aaron chokes out, “sure, but- who?”

“Oh, I have someone in mind,” Katelyn smiles. 

She’s not only on the school’s cheer squad, but also a member of the student council, and as such is often tasked with welcoming new students to Millport High. Just this morning she'd been called to the office to do just that, and upon arriving there she'd met a boy who appeared to be the perfect candidate. Cute, guarded, tough, and - conveniently - just now walking into the library. 

Katelyn touches a finger to Aaron’s cheek to tilt his gaze in the right direction. She watches as his eyes track auburn hair and blue eyes, scarred cheeks and hands. 

“Who the hell is that?” Aaron asks.

“Our solution,” Katelyn says, still smiling. “He’s new. His name is Neil Josten.” 

* * *

The next day, Katelyn slides onto the bench opposite Neil Josten in the cafeteria. 

“So,” she smiles, perching her chin on her fist. She’s been told this smile flusters boys. Neil just looks confused. “How are you liking it at Millport so far? Are people being nice?”

“Nice enough,” he says, with some hesitation and a shrug. “Thanks.” 

“Yeah, no problem!” Katelyn leans further forward. “It’s my job to make sure you feel welcome here. You let me know if anybody gives you trouble, okay?”

Neil looks her up and down and says, “Sure.” 

His shoulders hitch a little higher, and he focuses in on the slice of pizza in front of him. He takes a large bite, seeming to hope this will eliminate the possibility of further conversation. Unfortunately for him, he’s vastly underestimating Katelyn’s ability to carry a conversation with what amounts to a brick wall - if she can make Aaron _fucking_ Minyard chatty, well. Neil’s going to have to up his game.

“Hey, have you met Andrew yet?” Katelyn asks suddenly. 

Neil probably thinks the little sigh he huffs is well concealed. He shakes his head no. 

Katelyn continues, undeterred.

“He’s my boyfriend’s twin brother,” she chirps. “Have you seen Aaron around? I pointed him out to you yesterday when we were walking to bio.”

“Yeah.” 

“Isn’t he cute?”

Neil only shrugs. “Cute” has never been one of the boxes he ticks upon meeting a person for the first - or second, or third - time

“Well, see,” Katelyn says, her grin melting to a nearly predatory sort of rueful, “Aaron and I are sort of in trouble. His guardian, Nicky, won’t let Aaron see anyone - y’know, romantically - until Andrew does. We've been sneaking around, but we'd really like to go to prom together.”

She sighs.

Neil’s eyebrows raise expectantly, but he continues to say nothing. _Why should I care?_ His eyebrows ask. 

“So, we need someone to - you know - _date_ _Andrew_ ,” she says, meaningfully wiggling her own eyebrows. 

**_You_ ** _should date him,_ her eyebrows say. 

_No_ , his eyebrows say back. 

“No,” his mouth echoes. 

Katelyn’s eyebrows are disapproving. As Neil’s gaze travels downward, the rest of her face is equally so. 

“I didn’t even ask anything!” she says, indignant. 

“I know what you’re going to ask. The answer is no.” 

Neil stands. He can finish his pizza somewhere else - somewhere he won’t be accosted by sinisterly peppy cheerleaders trying to ensnare him in some sort of Shakespearean comedy when he just wants to graduate high school and get the hell out of this town. 

Katelyn pouts. If Neil hadn’t been so busy trying to get the hell out of dodge, he might have recognized the edge to her expression. 

“That’s unfortunate,” Katelyn says. “I really thought the two of you would hit it off… Nathaniel.”

Katelyn generously gives Neil a grace period of thirty seconds, in which time she watches him freeze, choke on his own spit, glance at every single exit in turn, and - finally - turn to glare at her with a hardness to his face that actually takes her by surprise for a moment. But only a moment. 

“That’s not my name,” he says. 

“Sure,” Katelyn says, “but public records are public records, hon.” 

“Not a lot of records to begin with,” Neil says, tone carefully even as if he hadn't just been considering jumping out a window. “You’ve done some digging.” 

“I’ve been told I can be a little intense.” 

“Have you.” 

“No one else needs to know about it,” Katelyn shrugs. “But I can also be a bit of a gossip.”

“Blackmail is a bit much for a high school boyfriend, isn’t it?” Neil doesn’t know much about the intricacies of romantic relationships - spending your formative years on the run from a murderous crime lord will do that to your social development - but he’s reasonably certain this isn’t normal. 

Katelyn wrinkles her nose. “I think blackmail is too strong a term. And it’s not like you have to marry the guy - we just want you to take him to the prom so that Aaron and I can go together.” 

“Just the prom?” Neil makes direct eye contact with Katelyn for the first time since she’s sat down. His eyes are almost too blue to be real. He's _perfect._

She sighs.

“Just the prom,” she says. “I promise.” 

“Fine.” 

And Neil Josten stalks away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nice to meet you, Andrew,” Neil says. Andrew thinks he might hate Neil, with his easy smirk. He certainly hates the way his name sounds in Neil’s mouth.
> 
> “Wish I could say the same.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> suggested listening: bad reputation

Andrew Minyard is, to be fair, not the most committed of soccer players. Which is to say that, standing in goal while technically participating in a scrimmage during practice, he is more easily distracted than most. 

Even so, the degree to which the track team has diverted his attention today is a bit much, even for him.

The sun beats down on the turf, uncharacteristically warm for early March, and Andrew idly tracks the progress of a bead of sweat running down his back even as his gaze fixes on the distance runners jogging lap after lap around the track that outlines the field. 

Andrew knows who is on the track team, in the same way that he knows who is in his British Literature class - which is to say, by face, stature, ability to throw a punch. Andrew knows those around him in survivalists’ terms. He has no desire to know any more than that. Today, there is a new face, a shock of auburn hair setting the pace for the varsity pack. Andrew doesn’t  _ care _ , per se, but he regards the addition with mild interest, exacerbated by boredom, and if his eyes linger a little too long on the bottom edge of running shorts, nearly covered by a too-big t-shirt, well. No one is nearby to call him on it.

The track team has paused for water, half of the group taking the opportunity to remove their shirts, and Andrew is  _ not _ hoping that the new kid will do the same, when a ball whizzes past his head and into the goal. He flicks his gaze disinterestedly to the source of said ball, and is unsurprised to see Kevin Day standing a few meters from him, face red with exertion - or maybe frustration.

“You could try, you know,” Kevin says, aggrievedly adjusting his shin guards as Andrew, unhurried, turns to retrieve the ball from the net. 

“Okay.” Andrew punts the ball all the way over the midfield line and into the opposite goal box, where it bounces into Renee Walker’s waiting gloves. A fleeting moment of amusement, more of a TV screen hum than a spark, flits to the forefront of Andrew’s consciousness and makes his mouth twitch. 

“Fuck you,” Kevin grunts, righting himself and jogging back to midfield. Andrew watches him leave and then promptly stops caring again. 

By the time Coach Wymack blows the whistle to end the scrimmage, Andrew is uncomfortably warm, and displeased about it. At least he’s not dripping sweat like the rest of the team. He wrinkles his nose as they all close the distance to huddle around Wymack for finishing remarks - they all reek.  _ Ugh. _

He suffers through the usual,  _ Our first game is coming up; Day, you’re still favoring your left leg; Gordon, you need to aim for somewhere - anywhere - other than the lower right corner every time you shoot, _ like Andrew hasn’t noticed and catalogued all these things and more for himself already. And, predictably-

“Minyard, would it  _ kill _ you to pretend you’re paying attention?” 

Andrew barely sighs, a small puff through his nose. He stares flatly at the older man until Wymack shakes his head. Andrew may be a disinterested menace at practice, but he is also one of the best goalies in the league, and Andrew knows it. He is allowed some leeway that others would not be afforded. 

“Fuck it,” Wymack mutters, “get out of here, all of you. Drink some fucking water, it’s too goddamn hot out today.” 

Andrew feels his twin brother at his elbow almost immediately. 

“I’m studying with Katelyn today, I don’t need a ride,” Aaron says. “I’ll text Nicky when we’re done.”

Andrew shrugs. Aaron clearly thinks he’s being subtle about whatever the hell he’s doing with Katelyn; fortunately for him, Andrew doesn’t really care enough to bring it up. He also doesn’t care enough to make things particularly easy for him.

“I don’t need you stinking up my car anyway,” he says. 

Aaron snorts and jogs the rest of the way off the field, tossing “See you at home, asshole,” over his shoulder as he gathers his things and makes for the locker rooms to shower. 

Andrew follows at a slower pace, and sits a ways from the rest of the team to take off his gross cleats before making the trek back to his car, parked in the lot on the opposite side of the building. He’s so consumed by thoughts of the fresh pint of ice cream awaiting him at home - some sweet relief from this fucking heat - that it takes him a moment to realize there’s someone unfamiliar standing next to him. It’s unnerving, in a way; Andrew makes it a point to be hard to sneak up on. It does not become less unnerving when his gaze travels up what seems to be miles of well-muscled legs, running shorts, a baggy shirt, to catch on the scarred face of the boy he’d been watching run for the past hour.

Andrew stands, socked feet curling into the turf, and realizes he has to tilt his chin up slightly to meet the newcomer’s eyes. They are shockingly blue.

_ Jesus Christ. _

Andrew is not in the habit of wanting things, but when the boy’s mouth twists into a wry smile, Andrew thinks he might want to know how the crescent-shaped scar at the edge of his upper lip tastes. He promptly beats this thought back with a mental broom, straightens his back, and raises a questioning eyebrow. 

“Hi,” says the boy. “My name’s Neil.” 

Andrew would be furious at the degree to which Neil seems to be enjoying their height difference, or the ease with which Neil was able to get the drop on Andrew, but he speaks with a faded hint of an accent - British? - and Andrew’s brain momentarily misfires, like the old car his last foster brother drove occasionally did. Andrew still jumps at loud noises from the street outside his window. 

Scratch that, he’s still furious.

They are silent for what would be an uncomfortable amount of time as Andrew finishes packing his cleats and stepping into slides, but Neil seems unphased. 

“What’s yours?”

“Andrew.” 

“Nice to meet you, Andrew,” Neil says. Andrew thinks he might hate Neil, with his easy smirk. He certainly hates the way his name sounds in Neil’s mouth.

“Wish I could say the same.” Andrew shrugs his bag onto one shoulder and ignores Neil’s surprised bark of laughter as he starts toward the far parking lot. He hopes Neil will take this as the dismissal it is - he really cannot deal with an undercut mop of red curls that look  _ that _ soft right now. Or ever.

He can hear Neil following him. 

“Anything I can do to change your mind?” Neil asks as he catches up. Andrew can’t help but notice the conscientious gap Neil leaves between them - he’s used to feeling either crowded or coddled - sometimes feared, maybe - but this feels like none of those things. 

Andrew can think of several incredibly inappropriate responses to that question - some truthful, some not - and settles on-

“No.” 

Neil laughs again, and Andrew studiously ignores the way his gut twists at the sound of it. 

“You’re mean.” Neil says it like a compliment rather than an accusation. 

“You’re weird,” Andew replies. 

Neil doesn’t respond, just hums thoughtfully. They walk the rest of the way to the far lot in a silence that Andrew, under duress, could be convinced to say is companionable. Although, Andrew’s standards for “companionable” silence are admittedly low. Neil doesn’t seem furious to the point of being rendered incapable of speech - Andrew isn’t feeling particularly murderous - that’s about all it takes. Nonetheless, it’s. Well. It’s almost nice. 

Andrew stops when they reach his car. Neil continues down the lot, turning to walk backwards for a moment and wave. 

“See you around, Andrew,” Neil calls.

Andrew does not deign to respond. 

Instead, he watches as Neil - still walking backwards - stumbles into the rear bumper of a shoddily parked pickup truck.

Jesus  _ Christ. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m having a fucking crisis.” 
> 
> Bee, to her credit, seems largely unruffled by his unconventional greeting and abrupt entrance. She raises her eyebrows in interest, flips to the correct section of her notebook, and gestures for Andrew to take a seat in one of the threadbare armchairs across from her own. 
> 
> As Andrew settles in, tucking one leg under him and hugging the other knee with his shoes still on, she asks, “What kind of crisis?”
> 
> “A boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> suggested listening: "friday i'm in love" - the cure

Neil is… Strangely taken with Andrew. It’s something he hadn’t expected, as he’s never been attracted to anyone before, and he still hasn’t, really, but. There’s something about the way Andrew holds himself that makes Neil feel like he’s looking in a funhouse mirror. Distorted, not quite the same, but when he raises his right hand and wrinkles his nose, Andrew moves too. Or something. 

Maybe _intrigued_ is the right word. 

Neil contemplates this for the entire drive home, and continues to do so as he unlocks the front door and steps into his empty apartment. It’s not actually _his_ apartment - it belongs to his Uncle Stuart, who has technically been Neil’s guardian since his mother’s death. But Stuart Hatfield is not stateside terribly often, busy British mob boss that he is, and Neil hardly minds having the place to himself most of the time. 

Neil settles at the kitchen table with a bowl of strawberries and his math homework, and chews through a whole pencil eraser before he realizes he hasn’t opened his notebook yet. 

_Anything I can do to change your mind?_

_No._

He shuffles into his bedroom to snag his laptop and greet his cats, who each submit to a scratch behind the ears with only mild resistance, and collapses onto the couch. A cursory Google search for _Andrew Minyard_ doesn’t yield much. A Facebook page that’s pretty much empty. A MySpace that Neil would generously attribute to a twelve-year-old. Some scrolling reveals a photo of a slightly younger-looking Andrew posted on Facebook by Nicholas Hemmick-Klose, and Neil thinks back to his conversation with Katelyn - _Nicky_. 

In the photo, Andrew and Aaron stand unsmiling in soccer gear, flanking a grinning man Neil assumes is Nicky. _Y’all made your big cousin proud!!!_ the caption reads. It’s followed by a riot of emojis Neil refuses to attempt to decode. Digging back through Nicky’s Facebook is slightly more enlightening, in that it lays out, in detail, the entirety of the twins’ adoption process, by way of vent posts and weekly updates. 

The earliest relevant post is a shared obituary for Tilda Minyard, Nicky’s aunt who had apparently died in a car crash while driving under the influence. A few weeks later comes a post with more exclamation points than Neil thinks he has used in his entire life. It explains that Nicky had, while cleaning out Tilda’s house in preparation to adopt Aaron, discovered some papers that suggested that Aaron was part of a matching set, and that the other half was potentially still adrift somewhere in the foster care system. Of course, Nicky of the past owned, it was possible - likely, even - that the other twin had been adopted already, and he had no desire to disrupt the poor boy’s life without reason, but, _how crazy, right!?!?! I hope he’s doing ok…_ More emojis. 

As luck would have it, a friend of a friend of a friend had fostered Andrew a couple years back, and was able to ascertain that he had not yet found a stable living situation. Word was passed along that Nicky was interested in reuniting the brothers if Andrew was amenable to the idea. Within a few months, Andrew Doe became Andrew Minyard, and Nicky’s Facebook wall quickly reverted to semi constant selfies - alone, with one or both of the twins, with his husband Erik, with coworkers, with a disgruntled-looking soccer coach - at lunch, at various soccer pitches, in public bathrooms, in a school hallway - a truly impressive array. 

Neil doesn’t find anything else useful on Nicky’s Facebook page, and even less on Aaron’s, but all told he’s impressed at having learned this much - tight-lipped Andrew Minyard being related to a chronic oversharer with an apparent emoji addiction is more than he could have hoped for. 

The public leg of his search complete, Neil clicks his way into a database that, legally speaking, he should not have access to. Practically speaking, however, he is the nephew of a prominent crime boss, and this - despite its many, _many_ drawbacks - does have its perks. He enters Andrew’s name in the search bar and skims through a series of Juvenile Court records. 

Assault, assault, underage drinking, assault... Ignoring the drinking charge, Neil reads through the details of each case. While Andrew had been found guilty every time and been administered progressively harsher punishments, the fights all seemed to be instigated in defense of a member of his family. The earliest incident followed suggestive comments made by the victim about Andrew’s foster sister at the time. The rest all share the common thread of Nicky or Aaron being present and, in some way, harassed prior to the violence breaking out. 

_Huh_. 

Neil doesn’t know Andrew, or, he barely does. Neil doesn’t owe him anything. Neil should be focusing on survival, on keeping his past a secret so he can live a normal life here, on getting this prom thing over with as quickly and painlessly as possible. Neil is a born liar. 

Neil, inexplicably, doesn’t want to lie to Andrew.

* * *

Track practice lets out a few minutes before soccer the next day. Neil takes his time stretching and pulls a hoodie over his head, yesterday’s unseasonable heat having dissipated in the night. He makes his way to Andrew who sits, like yesterday, apart from the rest of his team and yanking off his cleats. 

“I thought I told you to fuck off.” Andrew’s voice is flat and he barely glances up at him. 

“No you didn’t,” Neil says. “You implied it, at best.” 

Andrew stuffs his shoes and shin guards in his bag and stands up, but does not - Neil notes - explicitly tell him to fuck off as he turns and starts towards the parking lot. 

Neil doesn’t bother trying to swallow his grin as he jogs to catch up.

* * *

The Minyard twins attend therapy in three distinct phases: Andrew’s turn, Andrew and Aaron’s turn, and then Aaron’s turn. They see child psychologist Betsy Dobson back to back to back every Thursday evening, without fail, and then get pizza after. Nicky and Erik are and always have been very pro-mental hygiene; when Andrew arrived on the scene, Aaron had already been seeing Bee for a few months. It’s possible that therapy was the only thing Andrew agreed to without putting up a fight or striking a bargain in his first few months with his newfound family - by the time he made his way to them, he’d had enough of wrestling with his tangled psyche, and decided it wouldn’t be the worst thing to have an extra set of hands to help sort through the mess. 

This evening finds it messier than most.

“I’m having a fucking crisis.” 

Bee, to her credit, seems largely unruffled by his unconventional greeting and abrupt entrance. She raises her eyebrows in interest, flips to the correct section of her notebook, and gestures for Andrew to take a seat in one of the threadbare armchairs across from her own. 

As Andrew settles in, tucking one leg under him and hugging the other knee with his shoes still on, she asks, “What kind of crisis?”

“A boy,” Andrew speaks into his knee. 

Bee just waits, which Andrew appreciates. He doesn’t think he could tolerate any asinine questions about bullying - as if he is someone who could be _bullied_ \- or crushes - as if he is someone who gets _crushes_ . But then, he doesn’t exactly know what he’d prefer. _Ugh._

“He’s… new,” he continues, haltingly, muffled. “He’s an idiot.” 

“How so?” Bee does not bother telling Andrew that he shouldn't just call other people idiots. Instead she stands to turn on her electric kettle and pull out the hot chocolate mix; Andrew feels able to rest his chin on his knee instead of covering his mouth, now that her eyes aren’t on him. 

“He talks to me,” Andrew says. “He… I wish he wouldn’t.” 

“You can ask him to stop,” Bee says lightly, spooning cocoa powder into two mugs. “I know we’ve practiced establishing boundaries - we can run through some scenarios together.” 

“I don’t,” Andrew stops. Starts again. “I don’t want to.” 

Bee’s hands go still over the kettle for just a moment before regaining momentum and pouring water over the powder. Andrew watches the steam billow and swirl in the light of the sunset trickling through the window. 

“You like talking to him?” Bee has a way of saying statements like questions, of never boxing Andrew in. 

“I can’t stand him.” 

He can’t stand the way his stomach twists when Neil grins, lopsided from the scar on his left cheek. He can’t stand the way ignoring soccer practice used to be a choice, but now his attention drifts unbidden to the track each afternoon. He can’t stand the fact that he’s seen Neil twice, ever, in his life, and can still recall the exact shade of blue that his eyes turn when the sun peeks out from behind the clouds.

Bee, miracle that she is, seems to pick up on this as she hands him his hot chocolate. It is just barely too hot, and Andrew wraps his hands around the mug to ground himself. 

“You’re allowed,” Bee says, “to like him.” 

Andrew is silent for a while, and then nearly inaudible. 

“I don’t want to.”

“Why do you?”

Andrew pauses to think. 

“He’s… He’s pretty,” he starts, and almost snaps the handle off his mug he hates saying it so much. “He doesn’t crowd me. He’s not afraid of me.” 

“And what’s wrong with that?” Bee asks. She buries the beginnings of a soft smile in her hot chocolate, as if she knows that Andrew can’t, for the life of him, think of an answer. 

Instead, he switches tacks. 

“Aaron,” he says. “Aaron can’t date anyone until I do.” 

“Right, your deal. A few things there,” Bee starts. Pauses. “I didn’t say anything about dating this boy - would you want to?”

Andrew scowls, and Bee seems to register that she’s hit a sore spot. 

“Okay,” she says. “Okay. And I remember you not wanting Aaron to date because of some understandable anxiety you have about him being… taken advantage of.” 

Anxiety is probably the right word for it, although it does precious little to describe the way Andrew can feel phantom hands on his body most nights, the way he wants anything but that for his brother. It’s almost impossible to verbalize how he feels thinking about it - about the vulnerability in letting someone past your walls, about the stupidity of thinking you can trust anyone without reservations. The people who are supposed to love you often do not, or they do it poorly, or wrong, and Andrew knows this. 

So Andrew and Aaron had made a deal, when he first arrived, born of Andrew’s refusal to be retraumatized and Aaron’s desperation for a brother after a childhood alone under Tilda’s heavy hand. Aaron wouldn’t date anyone until Andrew did, and Andrew would stay. Aaron would never be a victim like Andrew was, because Andrew knew he would never let anyone close enough to touch ever again. He knows Aaron lies about it to Katelyn - that he claims it’s Nicky’s rule, and not the only deal he could make with Andrew to convince him to stick around. Andrew quite frankly doesn’t care, as long as it keeps the two of them at least mostly apart. 

“Correct.” 

“Do you think this is the healthiest way you could be coping with that?” Bee asks, jotting something down in her notebook. 

Andrew stares at her blankly, cheek resting on his knee, and doesn’t answer. The answer she’s fishing for, _no,_ is the correct one; he knows that at seventeen in a way he hadn’t at twelve. But Andrew right now is two things. One, he is true to his word. And two, he is, irrationally, desperately, clinging to this deal like a liferaft, because he absolutely cannot - _will_ not - deal with these feelings right now. Five years of therapy and all the pretty blue-eyed boys in the world will not change the fact that Andrew Minyard does not date. Call the refusal a hurdle, a trigger response, a stumbling block in the way of Andrew living life as his happiest self, he doesn’t give a shit. 

Neil Josten is a goddamn walking crisis, and Andrew will allow him to be nothing more than that. 

As Andrew’s silence stretches like taffy, Bee gently closes her notebook and stands to take Andrew’s mug - the hot chocolate within is untouched and disgustingly cold, now. 

“We have about five minutes before your brother joins us,” she says. “Do you think a quick walk might help clear your head?” 

He does. But three laps around the building later, a new mug of hot chocolate in hand, Andrew's not finding it any easier to breathe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *blends Bee's canon personality w my own therapist's vibes* this is good characterization right? hfskdlj  
> say hi to me on tumblr! @much-ado-about-exy


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What does he like?” 
> 
> It’s Friday afternoon and Aaron does not have the patience for this right now. “This” being a freshly showered Neil Josten, sliding into the seat across from him - Katelyn’s recently vacated seat - in the library after practice. Aaron sighs. 
> 
> “What.” 
> 
> “Your brother, duh,” Neil says, reaching over to knock on Aaron’s skull and seeming unbothered as his hand is batted away. “The one your not-girlfriend is blackmailing me to date so the two of you can - I don’t know - what do straight couples get up to these days? Don’t answer that, I don’t want to know. What does Andrew like to, like… Do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> suggested listening: "i'm just a kid" -simple plan

“What does he like?” 

It’s Friday afternoon and Aaron does not have the patience for this right now. “This” being a freshly showered Neil Josten, sliding into the seat across from him - Katelyn’s recently vacated seat - in the library after practice. Aaron sighs. 

“What.” 

“Your brother, duh,” Neil says, reaching over to knock on Aaron’s skull and seeming unbothered as his hand is batted away. “The one your not-girlfriend is blackmailing me to date so the two of you can - I don’t know - what do straight couples get up to these days? Don’t answer that, I don’t want to know. What does Andrew like to, like… Do?”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Aaron asks. 

“You seem tense.” Neil grins. Aaron could probably punch him, if that wouldn’t just prove him right. 

“Andrew doesn’t like anything.” 

Aaron stands and starts shoving books into his backpack. He’s clearly not getting any work done at this point, and maybe Josten will get the hint and leave him be. When Katelyn had pitched this idea, he hadn’t thought he’d have to be buddies with the guy. In fact, the more he sees of Neil, the more he hopes he’ll never have to speak to him again. 

“Nothing?” Neil has this confused, kicked-puppy look on his face when he stands as well. “Seriously?” 

Aaron starts out the doors, Neil trailing behind him like an annoying shadow. 

“You can’t expect me to work with  _ nothing, _ dipshit,” he continues, frustrated now. “I’m supposed to get the guy to like me, and he doesn’t have any interests? Is this just some stupid scheme to make the new kid look like a jackass?”

“You look like a jackass just fine on your own,” Aaron says. He ignores the indignant noise Neil makes. “Andrew doesn’t like anything.”

“So you’ve said,” Neil grumbles. “This has been monumentally helpful, thanks.” 

They break apart in the main hall, Aaron heading to the parking lot and Neil cutting back toward the locker rooms. Aaron takes a moment to breathe, and reminds himself of the purpose Neil is currently attempting to serve. Sure, he’s annoying, but - well - doesn’t that just mean he needs even  _ more _ help than one might expect in winning over Aaron’s impossible to impress twin brother?

“He’s going to a concert this weekend.” Aaron only knows Neil hears him because he stops walking. “At Club Skunk. Tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” says Neil, and this time he sounds a little more genuine about it. 

“Whatever.”

* * *

It’s been about three weeks since Neil started meeting Andrew after practice, and they’ve walked to the parking lot together every school day since. Sometimes Renee Walker, the soccer team’s substitute goalie, joins them so that Andrew can drive her home when her mom’s working late. She ropes them into ridiculous debates about who they would want to be stuck with during a zombie apocalypse, or on a deserted island, or if the world were to be destroyed by bureaucratic aliens to make way for an intergalactic bypass and they were the only humans to survive the fallout. Through these conversations, Neil gains a rudimentary understanding of the lineup of the school’s soccer team, and Andrew’s opinions on them - which are, unsurprisingly, negative on the whole. 

When it’s just the two of them, though, they walk mostly in silence, punctuated only by brief exceptions. Sometimes Neil will say something particularly stupid, which prompts Andrew to respond with something particularly violent, and Neil will laugh. It’s often not entirely by accident, because Neil - against his better judgment, and totally by surprise - finds that he’s enjoying himself. 

He treasures each little detail Andrew reveals to him - never pried for, only freely given - and collects them in the back of his mind like he’s studying for a test he wants to ace. Details like Andrew’s aversion to being touched, his dislike of his brother’s not-girlfriend, his penchant for sweets. Neil had brought him a Snickers bar the day after acquiring that last nugget of information - Andrew had looked at him like he was ready to punch something, and then taken the candy bar and stuffed it into his bag without another word. 

It’s a frighteningly easy rhythm to fall into, Neil nagging Andrew for his cigarette habit, Andrew nagging Neil for wearing his “stupid fucking shorts” despite the chill. But it definitely isn’t something Neil can see progressing into “asking him to prom” territory any time soon. 

So he’d gone to Aaron for help, and now here he is, going out on a Saturday night for what he thinks might be the first time in his life. 

And Club Skunk is - to be generous - possibly Neil’s least favorite place in the world, he’s discovering. It’s loud enough that his teeth rattle in his head, crowded enough it makes the muscles in the back of his neck twitch, and the whole place smells like booze and cigarette smoke. He thinks of his mother. His legs tense. He clenches his hands into fists and inhales, long and slow, exhales in a gust of stale, sweaty air. 

He finds Andrew at the bar, sitting in silence as the bartender chatters at him. When Neil slides into the seat next to him, he’s surprised to find that something in the impassivity of Andrew settles him. It’s a strange feeling, to be comforted by something that isn’t the pounding of pavement beneath his feet or the cold metal of a gun beneath his pillow, but. It isn’t bad. 

“What are you doing here,” Andrew says, effectively cutting off the other man. Something like interest flickers behind Andrew’s eyes for a moment before it’s promptly snuffed out again. He doesn’t turn his head. For most this would be a discouraging greeting, but Neil hears _Oh, hi,_ _it’s you_ , loud and clear in Andrew’s willingness to even acknowledge him.

“Who’s this, Andrew?” The bartender doesn’t skip a beat. 

“Neil,” Neil offers, when Andrew doesn’t seem to be forthcoming. The bartender doesn’t seem phased, clearly used to Andrew’s mannerisms. 

“Nice to meet you, Neil,” the man says. “My name’s Roland. What can I get you?” 

“Water,” says Neil. “Please.”

Andrew visibly stiffens, and Neli tucks that into the back of his mind alongside the rest of the baseball card facts he has on the other boy. 

“You sure?” Roland asks, leaning forward and winking. “I can, uh. Hook you up with something a little stronger, if you want.” He nods to Andrew’s glass, which has a couple fingers of something amber in it. “On the house, if you’re a friend of Andrew’s.” 

“Just water, thanks,” Neil repeats. “I don’t drink.” 

Roland shrugs, and slides a water bottle across the bar, then moves down the line to help an approaching group of new patrons. 

“I asked you a question,” Andrew says as soon as Roland is gone. “Don’t make me repeat myself.” 

“It didn’t sound like a question,” Neil says. The club is still too loud and too bright and it makes his leg jitter, but he settles more into himself with the flat glare Andrew levels at him. The familiarity of annoying Andrew combined with unyielding hazel eyes boring into his own is grounding. Neil thinks, with a twist of regret, that he appears to have actually made a friend. 

Andrew looks away, tired of waiting, and something in Neil’s chest unravels without the weight of his gaze. 

“I like this band.” Neil nods towards the stage, where a woman with roughly twelve pigtails is wailing her heart out. He has no idea who she is. Andrew seems to suspect this, from the way that his eyes slide from the stage, to Neil, and back again, but he doesn’t say anything.

Neil pauses for what he thinks is an appropriate amount of time before tacking on, “And I wanted to see you.” 

Dishonesty has started to feel slimy to Neil, in a way it never did before. Lies have always been the foundation upon which his life is built, his comfort zone, because they meant safety for him and his mother for so long. This particular lie is uncomfortable because it isn’t entirely untrue - Neil  _ does _ like spending time with Andrew - but Neil can see all too clearly the abrupt end to which that time will come when Andrew inevitably finds out the truth about  _ why _ their friendship began. Every suggestive half truth and implication of attraction takes Neil another step closer to being irredeemable in Andrew’s eyes. Andrew, who has no patience for liars. Andrew, who makes time for Neil.  _ Christ. _

Andrew looks at him again. An amateur would call the look on his face  _ unimpressed _ but Neil can read  _ intrigued _ in the slight wrinkle in his nose, the twitch of his eyebrows. Neil’s childhood was not traditional, and most of the time this feels like a detriment - the overwhelming urge to run when he’s startled, the way the smell of smoke takes him out of his body, the way crowds make his chest hurt - but he is also able to read people like open books. And when it comes to Andrew, who is less a novel and more a password-protected journal, this feels like a gift. 

“Don’t say stupid things,” says Andrew.

* * *

Monday after practice, something has shifted. Andrew is not more talkative - if anything he is quieter - but the silence is somehow less forceful than before. And for Neil, who had no trouble at all making a home for himself within those forceful silences before, it now feels almost delicate. Tender. A vulnerability freely given, or an opened door. Neil shoulders his way in. 

“Do you want to come over?” he asks. 

Andrew inspects him. Neil doesn’t return his gaze, but he thinks if he did he would see  _ interest _ or maybe  _ suspicion _ or even  _ shock. _

“I have a calculus test tomorrow.” Andrew is facing forward again. He hates math; it seems to be the only subject that eludes his otherwise incredible academic prowess. It’s not a no.

“I can help you study, if you edit my British Lit essay,” he offers. Neil can’t stand English, but he excels at math - in a world full of uncertainties, he finds comfort in solving for a definite right answer, and something about crunching numbers soothes his hyperactive mind - and Andrew knows it. 

“That’s unfair,” Andrew says. “You’re practically illiterate, making me read that shit will be torture.” 

“Ice cream? My treat?” Neil neatly ignores the fact that he’s essentially offering to pay Andrew for the privilege of sitting through several tooth-grindingly frustrating hours of walking him through the steps involved in differentiating quotients. He doesn’t really mind. 

“Cookie dough.” 

“Obviously.” 

Neil gives Andrew his address when they split up in the parking lot. He stops to pick up a pint of ice cream on his way home, and is unsurprised to see Andrew leaning against the hood of his car in the parking lot when he arrives. For someone who doesn’t seem to care about much of anything, Andrew’s car is  _ nice. _ Neil has no idea what variety it is, or if it’s as expensive as it looks, but the sleek black lines of it are certainly impressive. 

He holds up the sweating plastic bag in triumph as he makes his way to Andrew. Neil leads him through the front door and up to his second floor apartment which is, as always, empty save for the cats, who come trotting into the living room to greet them. 

“Sir, King, this is Andrew,” Neil says, nudging each cat with his foot in turn. “Andrew, Sir and King.” 

Andrew squats down and very seriously extends a hand for them to sniff and, when King decides they’re going to be best friends and collapses at Andrew’s feet, he pets her gently with the same stoic expression. Neil feels something unidentifiable twist in his stomach at the sight, so strong he has to turn away. He disappears into the kitchen and only returns with a spoon when he’s certain the episode -  _ whatever _ the hell it was - has passed. 

Andrew has already made himself at home on the couch, splaying his notes across the coffee table, and Neil plunks the pint of ice cream down on a stack of important-looking papers with a polite request to “move over, asshole.” After much shuffling, space is cleared for both of them. 

They work shockingly well together; Neil tears apart his essay while Andrew scowls his way through pages of practice problems and packs away cookie dough ice cream, and then they trade Neil’s laptop for Andrew’s notebook to check each other’s work. Rinse, repeat. When Neil next looks up, it’s dinnertime. 

“My Uncle Stuart won’t be home tonight,” he says, running mental calculations on the contents of his refrigerator, “and I’ll probably order pizza for dinner. You can stay, if you want.” 

Andrew shrugs, but pulls out his phone and fires off a text. A minute later, his phone buzzes and he says, “I’ll stay.” 

They argue about the pizza toppings, continuing to do so long past when the delivery arrives, and then about which show to watch while they eat. They land on mushrooms and The Great British Baking Show, respectively. 

“You’re doing it wrong,” Andrew says flatly, watching a contestant try and fail to roll up a Swiss roll in the first few minutes of the episode. “Disgraceful.”

Neil barely holds back a snort. As Andrew’s running commentary continues, he stops trying not to laugh and simply enjoys the show. Every melodramatic critique is given with the same dispassionate delivery, albeit occasionally emphasized with a vague gesture with a bit of pizza crust. 

“My grandmother could make a better sponge than that, and she is dead,” Andrew intones, clearly unimpressed with the lack of on screen talent. 

Neil bites down on a shocked bark of laughter and turns to look at the boy next to him, only to feel as if all the air has been punched out of him at the sight. The living room is dark now, only illuminated by the screen in front of them, and their work lays abandoned in scattered piles. They are no longer at opposite ends of the couch; instead they sit only inches from each other.

This all feels an awful lot like a date, even if neither of them are calling it that. Neil thinks again with a pang that it’s a shame that he isn’t attracted to Andrew, because as the flickering light of the television catches in Andrew’s eyelashes and illuminates the crease beside his mouth that means both  _ entertained  _ and  _ pleased, _ Neil thinks that he’d really like to kiss Andrew, or at least hold his hand. Wait.  _ What? _

Oh. 

_ Oh.  _

_ Shit. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws this at u* whAT AM I DOING  
> come say hi on tumblr! much-ado-about-exy


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Pictures!” Nicky bursts out. “Andrew, come here and take pictures.”
> 
> “We’re going to a party at Seth Gordon’s house,” Andrew says, shuffling downstairs nonetheless, “not a fucking wedding.” 
> 
> Neil looks up, his face brightening and losing some of its nervous edge as they lock eyes. 
> 
> “Hey, Andrew.” Neil’s smile is just a sideways slant to his lips, but it’s warm. Andrew’s mouth softens almost imperceptibly at the corners in response; he knows Neil notices from the way his grin widens.
> 
> Nicky appears to be verging on cardiac arrest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recommended listening: "love drunk" -boys like girls

Tuesday afternoon finds Neil in the cafeteria, sitting with some other seniors from the track team and picking at soggy french fries. This trio has only started sitting with him in the past two weeks or so - they’d seen him sitting alone and decided to take him under their collective wing out of misplaced pity. Their dynamic, from what Neil can tell, hasn’t changed much from his addition. He’s not a talkative person by nature, and as such is little more than one more silent witness to their normal gossip. 

“All I’m saying is,” Jenna says, bracelets jangling as she gestures, “that _no_ straight girl would dress like that _and_ listen to Hailey Kiyoko, right?” 

“I dunno, Jenna.” Chloe looks doubtful. She bites at the edge of one brightly painted fingernail before thinking better of it. “And even if she _is_ , y’know - that doesn’t mean she’s into _me,_ so-”

“Are you kidding me?” Jake scoffs. “ _Everyone_ is into you, Chlo. Shit, I’m into you and I don’t even like girls.” 

“Exactly,” Jenna says, punctuating her victory with an emphatic jab of her own french fry. “Just _ask her out,_ hon.” 

Neil is content to let them chatter; he’s settled into the track team well enough that the babble is comfortable, but he doesn’t really have anything to add to the conversation. He doesn’t know the girl they’re talking about - although Chloe insists that she’s “absolutely dreamy, oh my _god,_ Neil” - and, while he wishes them well, he frankly has his own romantic woes to ponder. 

Last night’s revelation has haunted him all day. Andrew had left late - hopefully with an improved understanding of the practice problems Neil had tried to walk him through after dinner, but really it had been hard to focus well enough to tell - leaving Neil to stew in guilt and confusion and anxiety until two in the morning. Now he’s sleep deprived and jittery, because not only has he come to the realization that Andrew seems to be the sole exception to his previously presumed-to-be-aromantic lifestyle, but he also doesn’t know how to dig himself out of the massive hole he’s dug himself into with the secrets he’s keeping. 

Even more unnerving is his guilty conscience. His survival was dependent upon the ability to spin lies for most of his formative years, and as such he’s never actually felt _bad_ for misleading someone before. The reasoning behind why things with Andrew are different is an avenue he can’t stand to explore but finds himself wandering down any time his mind drifts nonetheless - like a fat lip he can’t stop himself from poking at with his tongue. 

The facts are simple when laid out - that he wants to kiss Andrew, wants to spill his guts and tell him the truth, wants to trust and be trusted by him, because he _likes_ Andrew. But after years on the run without any meaningful connections with peers, and passionate discouragement from romance by his mother, it’s almost too much for him to come to terms with. 

“Neil?” Chloe’s voice breaks through his tangled thoughts. “You good?”

“Oh,” Neil says, shaking himself back to reality. “Yeah. I’m fine.” 

“Where were you, dude?” Jake asks, laughing. “You were spaced the _fuck_ out.” 

“He’s blushing!” Jenna practically shouts, grabbing Chloe’s arm and slapping it with glee. “Neil, who were you thinking about? _Ah!_ We’ll set you up with someone yet!” 

Neil blanches, genuinely frozen for a moment, and then an arm loops through his elbow and yanks him backwards off the bench, leaving him stumbling to keep his balance. 

“Mind if I borrow him for a second?” His savior is apparently _Katelyn_ , smiling apologetically in that sharp way Neil recognizes as meaning that she doesn’t really care if they mind or not. “Thanks!”

Neil waves apologetically at his teammates but otherwise quite willingly allows himself to be dragged across the cafeteria and out into the hallway. They land beside a water fountain a few feet from the cafeteria doors. Katelyn unscrews the cap of her aluminum water bottle and leans over to refill it, hip propped against the button to keep the water flowing as she turns to look at Neil. 

“Seth Gordon’s throwing a party this weekend,” she says, lips pursed and eyebrows raised. This is the first time Neil has been in direct contact with Katelyn since she first approached him about dating Andrew. He’s not particularly interested in eyebrow-based communication becoming a theme. 

“And?”

“Aaron would like to _go,_ ” she bites out, as if Neil is exceptionally dense. “And so would I. Which means that Andrew has to go.” 

Neil just stares at her, until her water bottle starts to overflow and she screws the cap back on without taking a drink. 

“Would you just ask him, please?” she pleads, finally losing her grip on her patience. 

Neil grimaces.

“What if I don’t want to do this anymore?” he blurts. “I mean…”

“It’s only a few more weeks until Prom now,” Katelyn says. “Think of this as a trial run! He can’t be that bad.”

“You said _just_ Prom,” Neil says miserably. “And... It’s- well. Just. This is, like, a really shitty thing to do, right? To mess with someone’s feelings like this? And if Andrew finds out Aaron put me up to it…”

“I didn’t ask you to make the guy fall in love with you.” Katelyn shrugs. “And, like- I _care_ about Aaron. And I care about his relationship with his brother. But honestly, I don’t think I could make that mess worse if I tried. I want to be _with_ Aaron, and I’m tired of waiting. Do you really think I’d be doing this if we hadn’t exhausted all our other options?”

“I’m just saying that maybe you had more options than you thought.” Neil tries to look nonchalant, but that may be a lost cause at this point. “Maybe you should stop this before it goes too far.”

“Look, Neil,” she says, pulling a tube of tinted lip balm from her pocket and reapplying it. “If I felt like I had another choice, I’d choose it. But I don’t; I just want to go to the Prom with my boyfriend like a normal person, and if setting up his monster of a twin brother up with you is what it takes to get his crazy cousin off his back so I can do that, then so be it. It’s not my fault you’ve apparently caught feelings.”

“I think what you’re doing is cruel,” Neil says. “And I don’t want any part of it.”

“You have a right to that opinion,” Katelyn says. “But you know what I know about you. Remember how bad I am at keeping secrets.” 

Neil scowls at the ground until he hears Katelyn’s footsteps recede down the hall. If he were less of a coward, he’d let her tell the whole school about his past, no matter the consequences. As it is, though, word spreading of his history would bring his father’s people to him like moths to a flame. He’s just gotten a new life, a routine that doesn’t revolve around survival, a permanent home - he’s not ready to give that up so soon. Even with his uncle’s help, the thought of spending the rest of his life on the run has Neil’s stomach turning. 

Or maybe that’s just the guilt.

* * *

Neil is late, Andrew notes with some annoyance, to meet him after practice. He tries not to let his displeasure at the other boy’s absence show as he downs half a bottle of water and toes off his cleats. (The weather is heating up for good now, and Andrew is not looking forward to muggy late-spring games; he hopes they don’t make it to Regionals this year.) He tries even harder not to let his relief show when he sees Neil jogging towards him, winded but grinning as always. 

Last night’s study session had devolved rapidly into what Andrew might, if he were someone else entirely, describe as a date. The soft light of the television had lit up Neil’s laughing face like the sun. Every time he had leaned into Andrew’s space to correct his work, careful not to touch or even brush against him but close enough to feel his body heat, it felt like having a heart attack, like suffocating. If Andrew hadn’t known before that he was well and truly fucked, he does now. Seeing Neil’s flushed face in daylight again does not, unfortunately, change that impression. 

“Hey,” says Neil, flopping onto the grass next to him. “I got you something.” 

He dangles a packet of M&Ms triumphantly in the air for a moment before tossing them at Andrew. Andrew, of course, makes no move to catch them. They land limply in his lap. 

He looks at Neil expectantly, waiting for an explanation for the gift. When none is forthcoming, Neil instead leaning back on his elbows and looking up at the clouds with a pensive expression, Andrew shrugs and tears the corner off the packet. He digs out all the green candies, the color bleeding onto his fingertips, and eats them one by one, then stands. Neil quickly follows suit, and they start towards the parking lot. 

Andrew has started rooting around for yellows by the time Neil speaks, eyes firmly on the grass in front of them. 

“So, I hear Seth Gordon’s having a party Friday.” 

It isn’t a question, so Andrew doesn’t feel the need to answer. He knows Neil knows he won’t. Not least because Andrew can’t really stand Seth - the kid is a homophobic loudmouth and on top of that he’s a pretty lousy forward. Andrew isn’t anyone’s biggest fan on the soccer team, but Seth may well win the prize for least favorite. 

After a moment of silence - Andrew finishes his yellow M&Ms and moves on to orange - Neil asks, “Would you want to go?”

Andrew barely stops to think before saying, “No.” 

Neil hardly seems phased - or, if he is, he doesn’t show it. 

“Okay,” he says. Nothing else. Just “okay,” and he drops it. 

This, more than anything else, has been what has him - stupidly, disgustingly - head over heels for Neil. When Andrew says no, Neil listens. Without hesitation. Without a second thought. He doesn’t push or question, he just. Stops. He hasn’t so much as brushed against Andrew since learning about his touch aversion, even walking in the grass when Renee joins them and the sidewalk is too narrow to fit them all. Andrew isn’t used to this level of consideration - especially in the absence of fear. Neil doesn’t respect Andrew’s boundaries because he’s afraid of Andrew - he just. _Does._ Andrew’s aware on some level that this is really the bare fucking minimum. But, combined with Neil’s crooked smile, his biting sense of humor, his brilliant laugh… Something about his conscientiousness is - stupidly, disgustingly - endearing. Andrew hates it.

Neil’s started chattering about something that’s almost definitely asinine, but Andrew has stopped paying attention, infuriatingly content to let Neil’s voice wash over him. 

Andrew is through with all the brown M&Ms by the time they reach the parking lot.

Before they can part ways, Andrew grabs the back of Neil’s t-shirt, ignoring the unpleasant dampness of it. Neil freezes. 

“Pick me up at eight,” he says. “On Friday. Gordon’s house is close to mine.” 

He doesn’t have to be looking at Neil to imagine the stupid grin spreading across his face, but he looks anyway. Neil grabs a handful of the front of his own shirt, as if mirroring Andrew’s action. Andrew lets go as if he’s been burned. Neil loosens his grip more slowly, thoughtfully rubbing the fabric between his fingertips. Andrew braces himself for the boy to say something monumentally idiotic, but all he says is-

“Cool. Will do.” 

* * *

Katelyn has, by a stroke of bad luck, arrived before Neil to the Hemmick-Klose-Minyard household. This is unfortunate for the following reason: it means Katelyn is the sole victim of both Nicky’s fawning and Andrew’s hostility. Further unfortunate: Erik’s level head and well-meaning interjections do little to soften the impact of either, and Aaron seems to be rapidly losing his patience.

“ _Oh_ you look so cute!” Nicky coos, hands clasped over his chest. “Twirl for me - let me see the back of the dress - and then we _have_ to take pictures!”

Katelyn spins in an awkward circle, keeping nervous eyes on Andrew, who glares at her from the staircase. The decision to go to Seth’s party with Neil - knowing that it would mean Aaron would be able to bring Katelyn as well, as per their deal - had not been an easy one to make. Andrew has no intention of allowing either Aaron or Katelyn to forget this fact, or to escape the repercussions of it. 

He’s actually contemplating threatening Katelyn with bodily harm should anything go even _remotely_ awry this evening, when the doorbell rings. Erik gently blocks Nicky’s lunge for the door and answers it himself, stepping back to reveal Neil standing on their porch. Andrew had been over earlier in the week to pick an outfit for the party - the boy’s attractive, but _Lord,_ he does not know how to dress himself - and is gratified to see that his hard work has paid off. 

It’s nothing fancy - a band tee, a flannel, jeans that actually fit - but it does wonders for him and his - good _Lord_ \- runner’s legs. Andrew takes temporary advantage of Nicky’s gasp-fawn-flutter routine to remind himself to breathe. 

“You must be Neil,” Erik says warmly, welcoming him in. Nicky has both hands pressed over his mouth in glee, and Andrew almost wants to laugh at the discomfort on Neil’s face as he nods under the couple’s scrutiny. “We’re very excited to meet you.”

“Pictures!” Nicky bursts out. “Andrew, come here and take pictures.”

“We’re going to a party at _Seth Gordon’s house_ ,” Andrew says, shuffling downstairs nonetheless, “not a fucking wedding.” 

Neil looks up, his face brightening and losing some of its nervous edge as they lock eyes. 

“Hey, Andrew.” Neil’s smile is just a sideways slant to his lips, but it’s warm. Andrew’s mouth softens almost imperceptibly at the corners in response; he knows Neil notices from the way his grin widens.

Nicky appears to be verging on cardiac arrest. 

Pictures are an open and shut affair, largely because Aaron and Andrew are eager to escape the company of both each other and their guardians. The final straw is when Nicky “casually” mentions where they keep the condoms; Andrew grabs Neil by the arm and bodily drags him out of the house. 

Aaron and Katelyn are not far behind, and Erik tosses an apologetic “It was very nice to meet you!” out the door before it slams behind them. 

Neil is laughing far more than Andrew thinks is really appropriate, and he’d be annoyed by the fact that Neil just _snorted_ if he weren’t so absurdly enamored with it. 

* * *

Neil has never particularly _liked_ parties - the few he’s been to have been far too crowded and loud for him to truly relax, and Seth Gordon’s does not seem to be an exception to this rule. He stands with his back to a wall to soothe his nerves. Everywhere he looks there are teenagers downing cheap beer at a truly irresponsible rate, grinding on each other, and shrieking. The only thing keeping Neil from throwing himself out the nearest window is Andrew, disdainfully nursing his own cheap beer at his side. 

This effect is nearly negated, however, by the fact that Andrew is wearing ripped jeans, which Neil has never cared much about on other people, but _now_ \- it’s all he can do to keep himself from staring. The experience of attraction is completely novel to him - he’s never once looked at someone’s face or hair or body and thought _wow_ before - and now it seems to have hit him all at once. It would be terrifying if it weren’t also so addictive. 

“Andrew! Neil!” 

Neil drags himself out of his own head to the sight of Renee waving as she forges a path through clusters of partygoers to make it to their corner. She hands Neil an unopened can of soda - and, how had she known he doesn’t drink? - before settling against the wall on Andrew’s opposite side. 

“I didn’t expect to see either of you here,” she says, and sips on her own soda. Her tone is nonjudgmental, but the part of Neil that fundamentally distrusts people when he can’t discern their motives wonders what angle she’s working. Does she know, too? Did Katelyn tell her?

“Babysitting,” Andrew says, nodding towards Aaron and Katelyn, who stand at the opposite side of the room holding hands and - oh - ew. Neil looks away. 

Renee nods mildly and doesn’t mention it again, instead delving into another insane hypothetical. In this one, the rain has turned toxic, bacteria consuming people’s flesh and contaminating the water supply, and they have to escape to Canada where the water is still potable and the people are less murderous. Neil doesn’t know how she comes up with these, but she’s inexplicably good at planning for them. The two of them debate survival details down to the minutiae, while Andrew provides sarcastic commentary and lists off which of his soccer teammates he’d leave behind (most of them). 

About an hour in, they find themselves cross-legged on the floor, and that’s where they remain for the rest of the evening. Renee, though she hasn’t had any alcohol, grows more expansive with her gestures as the night carries on, her beatific smile taking on a sharper edge, and Andrew seems to be slowly encroaching on Neil’s space. He downs two more beers as Neil slowly sips his soda, the sugar setting his teeth on edge, and then Aaron is leaning against the wall above them. 

“Katelyn and I are leaving,” he says to Andrew. “See you at home?”

Andrew nods and Aaron walks away. Andrew looks at Neil, tilts his head to the side infinitesimally. _Ready to go?_

Neil shrugs.

“We’re leaving too,” Andrew says to Renee. “Do you need a ride?”

“I’ve got the car tonight, but thanks, Andrew,” she says. “See you both Monday!” 

Neil waves, then turns to follow Andrew, who is already plowing through party goers and leaving a clear path in his wake. 

The drive to Andrew’s house is quiet, lacking even the blaring radio Andrew usually likes so much. He taps a pattern out on the passenger door and lights himself a cigarette after the first stop sign they pass. The carton tilts towards Neil in a silent offer. 

“No thanks,” Neil says. “I just like the smell.” 

The closed windows of Neil’s beater should be more than enough to let the confined space fill with the acrid tang of smoke. 

“The smell,” Andrew echoes. 

“It reminds me of my mom.” 

Neil doesn’t know when it became this easy to be honest with Andrew; it strikes him that Andrew could be collecting facts like baseball cards as well. 

Andrew nods, and doesn’t ask anything else. And that - that’s why. Andrew doesn’t pry. He’s safe and impassive and doesn’t flutter or fret over the strange things Neil lets slip. He’s just _there,_ taking what he’s given, trading truths in return. Neil has only known instability for as long as he can remember, and the sturdy immutability of Andrew is intoxicating. 

They pull up to Andrew’s driveway sooner than Neil is ready to. He parks on the street. Andrew opens the door without a word and sits on the hood of the car to finish his cigarette; after a beat Neil joins him, the suspension creaking under their weight. 

“What are you doing here?” Andrew asks. 

“I- uh. I’m dropping you off?”

“Dumbass,” Andrew mutters. “Why are you in Millport?”

“Oh,” says Neil. “Oh.” 

“ _Oh._ ” 

“It’s kind of a long story,” he says, hedging. 

Andrew pointedly lights another cigarette. _I have time._

“Right,” Neil says. “Well. This is going to sound insane, but. Here goes. My father was a, uh. Mob boss? An enforcer, anyway, and he enjoyed committing murders pretty frequently. He was called the Butcher? If that gives you an idea of the... situation. 

“Anyway, my mom basically decided that that wasn’t really any place to raise a kid, so when I was ten, she took me and five million dollars, and she ran… And we kept running until my father killed her in Seattle, and then the FBI killed my father when he tried to kill me in Baltimore, and then I was adopted by my uncle. That was about five months ago. By the time the FBI were done, like, processing me, my uncle had bought an apartment here.” 

Neil is almost afraid to look at Andrew. But, when he does, his face is just as placid as ever. The only difference is that his eyes have widened marginally, and Neil can’t begrudge him that. 

“Your therapist must make bank,” Andrew says. 

“Oh, yeah, Sir and King are well compensated.” Neil had been offered a shrink, first by the FBI and then by his uncle, but he’s never had it in him to trust a complete stranger with personal details like that.

“You are fucking absurd.” 

“You love it.”

“I hate you.”

“Of course.” 

And suddenly Andrew is standing, crowding into the space between Neil’s legs, close enough to see his eyelashes. 

“I want to kiss you,” Andrew says. “Yes or no?”

And suddenly Neil can hardly breathe. Andrew’s eyes are saying _I want to kiss you_ and so was his mouth, like, five seconds ago, and Neil can count every faint freckle on the bridge of Andrew’s nose and Neil’s heart is screaming _YES, YES, YES,_ even as his brain cries _Love is dangerous this isn’t allowed YOU’RE GOING TO HURT HIM!_

Andrew’s breath ghosts across Neil’s face. 

He smells like nicotine and cheap beer, and Neil’s heart whispers, _please._

“Yes.” 

Neil has been kissed before - he had been Alex at the time, on a park bench in Seattle, and a friend from school had pecked him on the lips. He had reacted with confusion, and she had left in a huff.

This is nothing like that. Andrew kisses him like he has everything to lose, like the world starts and ends with their lips, like he is drowning and Neil is a life raft. 

Neil is too frozen to even attempt to move, his brain and his heart humming _yes yes yes yes_ in tandem - because Andrew’s mouth on his feels _good_ and he never knew that touch could feel electric-joyful-tender like this - until a voice that sounds like his mother breaks through the clamor.

_What are you DOING?_

Neil throws himself back against the hood of the car, wrenching himself away from Andrew’s now-stricken face - so, so stark and shocked and shifting back to stillness in the dark. What _is_ Neil doing? Toying with the emotions of a boy he _knows_ he’s only hurting? Everyone calls Andrew a monster, but he has feelings just like anyone else, feelings that deserve more than whatever _this_ is, and Neil knows that if either of them is a _monster,_ well. It isn’t Andrew.

“I’m.” Neil’s voice breaks. “I’m sorry. I have to go. I’m sorry.” 

He doesn’t reach for Andrew. Andrew doesn’t reach for him. 

Neil climbs back into his car.

Andrew stands on the curb and watches him drive away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i like 2 think renee has just started her "bad person trying 2 be a good person" journey here, which makes it a little easier for neil 2 trust her  
> also, proud 2 say that halfway in2 this fic i finally have an outline 4 it! toot toot  
> come say hi on tumblr! @much-ado-about-exy


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew and Renee have a time-honored tradition of beating the shit out of each other when times get rough, dating back to when Renee was Natalie, and ran with Millport’s most prominent gang, and Andrew was in his last foster home before Nicky tracked him down.

Andrew could punch something, as Neil drives away. He could, in fact, punch a lot of things, or even people, and this sentiment has not changed by the time he wakes up the morning after Seth Gordon’s party. It is a testament to the work he does in therapy that instead of punching anything or anyone, he picks up his phone, and schedules an early appointment with Bee. 

She has an opening tomorrow. Andrew isn’t religious like Nicky is, but he thanks whoever’s listening for this small mercy anyway. 

It’s well past ten, and he just woke up, but he already feels drained just thinking about the day ahead after last night. He can’t get the precise texture and shape of Neil’s lips out of his head, but worse, he can’t forget the horrified look on his face as he had practically hurled himself against the beater’s windshield to escape their kiss. Andrew had thought he’d done everything right: he’d asked, he’d waited, he’d held completely still, unassuming and stoic, until he’d gotten an answer in the affirmative. And sure, Neil’s “yes” was like the answer to a prayer, and sure, Andrew had been enthusiastic in his response, but. Well. 

Andrew is used to others’ revulsion, anyway. Just because he hadn’t expected it this time doesn’t mean it feels any less familiar. 

The sting of rejection bites deeper than he ever thought it would. 

And to top it all off, he can’t shake the feeling that maybe when Neil had said  _ yes _ , maybe he hadn’t meant it that way. Maybe Andrew had just acted without thinking, violated Neil’s boundaries, and maybe he really is just as bad as - 

He sits upright, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed and rubs his hands up his face to grab fistfuls of his hair. He breathes through his nose, slow, and tries to combat the nausea roiling in his stomach. He thinks of what Bee would say. This isn’t a productive line of thought. This isn’t helpful to him. 

Andrew identifies and lists off each individual emotion he feels twinging in his gut and his throat ( _ disgust, horror, guilt, rejection, anxiety, embarrassment, anger,  _ and so on). He clinically matches each one with a memorized dictionary definition. He breathes. 

This only takes about fifteen minutes - he’s gotten much faster than he used to be, both because of practice and because he’s looked up definitions for most of the emotions he feels regularly, which means he doesn’t have to look them up again - and when Andrew’s done he feels… Not good, or better, but stable. 

He texts Renee, and starts getting dressed. 

_ [10:23] u free _

His phone buzzes with a response as he shuffles down the hall to brush his teeth, grimacing at last night’s stale dryness. 

_ [10:28] of course!! ^-^ _

Andrew responds, then pockets his phone, brushes his teeth, and slumps down the stairs. 

_ [10:30] im coming over _

He has shoes on and is making his way down the street before his family even realizes he’s awake. Renee’s house is within walking distance, and as much as Andrew hates the steadily warming weather, he can’t justify driving, even to himself. 

Renee’s on her front porch, sneakers on, when he arrives, and she stands to greet him. She takes one look at his face, and says-

“Park?”

He nods. Andrew and Renee have a time-honored tradition of beating the shit out of each other when times get rough, dating back to when Renee was Natalie, and ran with Millport’s most prominent gang, and Andrew was in his last foster home before Nicky tracked him down. They had both been in a different school district at the time, and had recognized in each other a kindred spirit. An edge and a mirrored violence that most of their fellow fifteen-year-olds had not reflected. 

Even now that Renee’s been adopted and is on the straight and narrow - or getting there, anyway - she still never balks at the controlled violence of their sparring sessions. She says it’s easier to keep Natalie locked up if she gives her some fresh air every once in a while. Andrew doesn’t doubt the truth of that, but he also thinks that there’s some small part of Renee that never stopped missing the adrenaline and bruised knuckles of her old life. 

The walk to their usual park takes about twenty minutes, and they pass the swing sets and sandboxes to pick their way through heavier foliage and under a hole in the chain link fence dividing the park proper from a wooded area behind it. Their clearing is only a few meters in, and the only people who ever use it besides them are college boys who leave behind empty beer cans and BB gun pellets on Saturday nights. 

“I expect you don’t want to talk about it,” Renee says, sinking back into a ready stance across from him. 

Andrew responds by taking his own starting position and throwing the first punch. Renee dodges easily and jabs at his gut, winding him. The grace with which she moves would be more frustrating if she hadn’t been fighting armed gang members since she was ten years old. 

“You seemed to be having a good time last night,” she continues, sweeping a foot out towards his legs and almost tripping him. “But you’re off your game now.” 

He kicks high, aiming for her head, but he’s slow, and she grabs him by the ankle, pulling him off balance. She tugs once, hard, and he’s on his ass in the damp leaves. He takes her offered hand and levers himself upright. 

“Have you talked to Betsy yet?” she asks. 

“Not yet.” 

“Soon?”

“Tomorrow,” he says, and bends his knees into a fighting stance again. 

Renee nods, looking satisfied, and does the same. 

An hour and a half later, they’re sprawled on the ground sweating bullets. Andrew’s phone has been buzzing with questions from Nicky and Erik for the past twenty minutes. Renee sits up, shakes her rainbow-dyed hair out of its ponytail and puts it back up in a bun. 

“This has been lovely,” she says, swiping at her forehead with an equally sweaty forearm, “but I need water.” 

Andrew grunts in agreement, hauling himself off the ground and to his feet. 

“I hope it helped,” she says, holding up the chain link for him to crawl under. 

It did, as it always does. Andrew feels more settled in his body. His hands are his own, his sweat is his own, and he is hungry. These are all improvements, even if thinking too closely about Neil sets his stomach twisting again. He nods at her, holding up the chain link for her in return. The smile she gives him is muddy, but radiant.

* * *

“I kissed him,” Andrew says in Bee’s office Sunday. “The boy.”

He sees Bee’s hands flex over her notebook.

“Oh?”

“I asked, and he said yes,” he says. “He kissed me back. And then…”

Andrew clenches his hands into fists, relishing in the sting of his fingernails cutting into his palms. Bee doesn’t say anything, waits. 

“He left. Ran away.” Andrew hates saying it out loud. “He was disgusted by me. He looked terrified.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Andrew,” Bee says. She stands. “Hot chocolate?”

He nods. 

“He said yes,” he repeats. “I didn’t - it wasn’t-” 

After a few moments of silence, Bee presses a warm mug into his hands, and says, “You are not the people who hurt you. You asked, and he consented.” 

Andrew doesn’t speak. 

“He thought better of it in the moment, and you let him go when he did,” she continues, sitting back down. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

Andrew nods once, sharp, but lets some of the tension bleed out of his hands, his back. They sit in his relief for a moment, until he thinks of something new. 

“If,” Andrew starts, “he had stayed. I would have asked him out.” 

Bee knows what this means for him - the release of control over his brother that would come with the dissolution of their deal, the release of control over his own life, even, his willingness to choose something he wants. She is familiar with all of the things that stood in his way, that he pushed aside or held the hands of when he asked Neil to kiss him. These things are, after all, most of what they’ve addressed as of late in his and Aaron’s joint sessions. 

It is a humiliating thing to lay absolutely everything on the line for a person only to be met with rejection, even if that person doesn’t know how important that moment is to you.

“That indicates some significant progress, Andrew,” she says. “Even if this boy didn’t reciprocate, I’m still very proud of you.” 

Andrew doesn’t feel the need to express how hollow that praise is in the wake of this setback. He cannot find it within himself to be proud that he’s taken this step with more steps in mind when all it’s resulted in has been even more anxiety and anger and disgust. He shrugs.

“What do you want to do now?” Bee asks. “Do you think that even without the potential for romance it’s still a relationship worth pursuing?” 

Andrew doesn’t need to think for long before he knows his answer, which is novel, but he drags out his silence for fear of sounding overeager. It’s strange that despite everything he still wants Neil around, but it also isn’t, really. Neil still knows what Andrew’s thinking before Andrew can find the words to articulate it. He still unerringly respects all of Andrew’s boundaries without complaint and asks questions before assuming and laughs like the sun when Andrew’s crass. 

After an appropriate stretch of time, he says, “I do.” 

* * *

Neil cannot remember when he last slept well, but the night after Seth Gordon’s party may be his worst night’s rest in recent memory, time spent on the run from his murderous father notwithstanding. He’d lain awake, rolling over in bed enough times he’d felt like a rotisserie chicken, thinking of Andrew’s hands and mouth on him, and then the terrible confusion on his face when - well. 

He’s found himself in regret limbo, wishing he hadn’t allowed Andrew to kiss him in the first place while wishing he’d never pulled away while knowing that he’d had to. 

In short, Neil feels like shit. So around 5:30, after several infuriatingly wakeful hours, he rolls out of bed and goes for a run. 

Before he came to Millport, Neil had never run track before. Instead, his cardio came in the form of two activities: fleeing murderous gang members, and, once he was old enough his mother trusted him to come back, running long loops around city blocks to relieve the stress brought about by fleeing murderous gang members. By the time he got to the Millport High track team, Neil was fast enough that Coach Hernandez had immediately slated him for varsity, despite his lack of experience. 

Now, he mindlessly pounds the pavement at a brutal pace, sharp breaths stuttering with every strike of his foot against the sidewalk. When he gets home, he’s dripping sweat and gasping for air, a monstrous stitch in his side, but his mind is blessedly, finally blank. 

He collapses onto the sofa, takes an accidental but much appreciated two-hour nap, and showers. It’s barely 11 AM, and thoughts of Andrew have already wormed their way back into his brain.

Neil sits on the floor of his room, mindlessly petting whichever cat comes near enough to reach, and thinks. The dominant part of him, the part that Mary Hatford raised before all this  _ permanence _ and  _ belonging _ and  _ safety  _ nonsense started, knows what he has to do. The information that Kaitlyn has on him hasn’t changed - she’d still seen the articles on Nathan Wesninski’s death, matched his face to his old name, and dangled it over his head - and in the wrong hands, it’s dangerous. If it gets out, he’ll either have to depend upon the government to relocate him in the Witness Protection Program, or flee by himself before his father’s people catch up to him.

He could run now, before it gets that far, but… For all the anxiety that this situation has plagued him with, Neil is still fairly happy here. He’s too selfish to leave, and he berates himself for it, but without his mother here to grab him by the arm and drag him out of Millport herself, he can’t make himself go. He would - and this is new, and frightening, but - he would miss it. The apartment, the cats, the track team, and - Andrew. He would miss Andrew.

He wants more than anything to tell Andrew the truth about Kaitlyn, the full extent of his past, everything, but that’s risky. Would he be so mad he’d spill Neil’s secrets himself? Would he simply stop speaking to Neil, prompting Kaitlyn to reveal them when Neil failed to get Aaron permission to go to prom? It’s too dangerous, and he knows it. 

It’s infuriating, to be free of his father and his past but still so utterly beholden to them both. 

At least he won’t have any trouble apologizing to Andrew at school on Monday. Neil is really, truly sorry. 

* * *

Neil appears to have ditched track practice on Monday, as he’s sitting near Andrew’s usual spot, looking jittery, when soccer lets out.

“Whatever happened to good old fashioned hard work?” Andrew asks, nodding towards where the distance runners are still stretching out. 

“I’m sick.” Neil coughs half heartedly into his fist and offers Andrew a wry smile. 

“Boo, you whore,” Andrew drawls. 

He’d be surprised at the look of confusion that scrunches up Neil’s whole face if the guy weren’t so much of an oddball already. Given the amount of pop culture references Andrew has been able slip by him, the cultural gap is no longer shocking.

“Never mind.” 

Neil shrugs, and then suddenly looks uncomfortable again. He looks down at the grass, then up at Andrew, then down at the grass, then sideways at Andrew, who has sat down to take his cleats off. 

“I wanted to apologize,” Neil says. And if that isn’t a change of pace - here Andrew had been prepared to apologize to  _ him. _

“Oh?”

“I… I reacted weirdly, on Friday,” Neil continues. “I- I wanted you to kiss me, and then I ran away like you’d done something horrible.” 

Andrew doesn’t realize how much tension he’s been holding in his body until it is gone. Even with Bee’s help acknowledging that he hadn’t technically done anything wrong, this is still a relief to hear from Neil himself, and it loosens something tight in his chest. 

“I’ve never been kissed before,” says Neil. “It was… overwhelming. And I, uh. Run away, when I'm stressed.” 

Andrew looks Neil up and down and pointedly quirks an eyebrow. 

“Seriously, I haven't,” Neil assures, his shoulders hunching. “My, uh. My mom didn’t let me have _friends_ while we were on the run, much less  _ date _ \- and I honestly never wanted to, anyway, until. Well. Until you.” 

Andrew’s eyes only widen marginally, but it’s enough for Neil to see - enough for Neil to laugh, a small, relieved, choked off sound, but just as bright as always. 

“I hope I haven’t fucked things up too badly.” 

“You are an idiot,” Andrew says.  _ You’re forgiven.  _

Neil grins, stupid and wide and infuriating, and this time Andrew is the one who's overwhelmed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think part of the reason andrew and neil are so drawn 2 each other is bc andrew has a hard time expressing himself and neil is so good at understanding anyway :,) <3  
> this chapter would have gotten to u sooner, but unluckily for u folks i watched the old guard a few days ago ^^” im sorting thru a possible au even tho that will bring my grand total of “aftg fics in the works” to 4(!!) (altho, my renison one shld be done pretty soon, it’s not 2 long)  
> come say hi on tumblr! @much-ado-about-exy


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they get to the front of the line, Andrew orders something loaded with cookie dough and brownie chunks. Neil orders blueberry frozen yogurt because he is an animal. Andrew reminds himself that everyone has flaws. 

Andrew is in detention. If asked why, _he_ would say he had done nothing wrong - some jackass had said something derisive about Andrew’s home life, and Andrew had responded _appropriately._ Unfortunately, the history teacher walking past at the time had not agreed. 

It’s hardly the worst punishment Andrew has ever received, but it is boring. The seconds tick past agonizingly slowly, and Andrew is starting to think he might ask the track coach on duty if he can go to the bathroom just to break up the monotony, when he hears a commotion down the hall, and the sound of running footsteps. 

And, with no further warning, Neil Josten bursts through the classroom door with the beginnings of a black eye. 

“Coach,” Neil cries, and - oh - he is actually crying, tears pouring down his cheeks, “coach! Something-” He hiccups. “Something happened, I- they- I told them to stop, but-”

“Josten, calm down,” says the track coach - Hernandez, Andrew remembers. “What happened?”

“They- they-” Neil stops to sniffle wetly, wringing his hands. “I tried to get them to- but- they won’t stop hitting each other! In the- the- in the far parking lot!” 

Hernandez sits up, alarmed, and says, “Stay here. It’s fine. You’re fine. I’ll handle it.” 

“Thank you,” Neil whimpers, practically doubled over as Hernandez hustles out the door. 

As it clicks shut behind him, Neil straightens up and hastily wipes his face dry, his black eye smudged from the tears. He turns to Andrew, beaming. 

“Wanna get out of here?” 

Andrew rolls his eyes at the theatrics, but of course he wants to ditch. He stands, swinging his backpack over one shoulder, and follows Neil out of the room, leaving the other three attendees of today’s detention dumbstruck behind them. They sneak around the side of the school with the sports fields to get to the close parking lot, where Neil just happens to have parked today. 

How fortunate. 

Andrew raises an eyebrow as they approach the beater, and Neil raises one in return. 

“This was premeditated,” Andrew comments.

“I think things through,” Neil starts, and, before Andrew’s other eyebrow can even finish joining the first, “sometimes.” 

“Where are you taking me?” Andrew asks. “So I can tell my family where to find my body.”

Neil drums his hands pensively against the hood on the driver’s side of the car. He stares at Andrew, hard, ice blue eyes warmed by the mischievous slant to his mouth. 

“Trust me?”

Andrew - against his better judgment, but humming with TV-static anticipation - slides into the passenger seat. 

Of course, he thinks, as they pull into the parking lot of PaintBalls, this was probably a mistake. Unfortunately he is apparently powerless against the combined forces of Neil’s sharp grin and a promise of ice cream after the fact. Which is how, in further defiance of his higher reasoning centers, he finds himself outfitted in a white jumpsuit with a satchel of paint-filled water balloons slung over his shoulder. 

Andrew isn’t sure what his face is doing that makes Neil snort - and he will of course deny to his dying day that he enjoys the gentle mockery in the other boy’s eyes - but it is likely something disdainful. 

“It seemed fun online.” Neil shrugs, tilting his head hopefully. “I thought you might enjoy getting to make a mess of my car after, at least.” 

“I do enjoy inconveniencing you.” 

“I told you I think things through.” 

As if to directly contradict his point, Neil reaches into his bag, pulls out a red balloon, and - maintaining eye contact the whole time - slowly and deliberately squeezes it until it pops directly above Andrew’s head. 

Irritation and amusement chase each other’s tails to the forefront of Andrew’s mind. He names them even as he watches Neil recognize them in his face and snort. Paint runs uncomfortable and sticky down the back of his neck. Andrew reaches for his bag. Neil turns tail and runs. 

It takes roughly twenty-five minutes for them to find each other again. Andrew had stationed himself atop a large bale of hay and pelted anyone who came close with balloons until he ran out, then slid off of it and onto the slightly cooler ground to wait. Neil has clearly run himself ragged, panting and covered in paint as he flops down on the ground next to Andrew, close enough to share the shade of the hay bale. 

Andrew levels a dubious look at Neil’s sweat-soaked hair and the grass stains on the knees of his white jumpsuit. 

“Where’s the fire?”

Neil snorts. 

“I just like running,” Neil says. He shrugs. “It’s fun.”

Andrew looks harder - at the oh-so-rarely relaxed set to Neil’s shoulders, at the way his hands are still for just a few moments - and raises an eyebrow. 

“It’s safe,” Neil continues, gaze darting to the ground to his lap to Andrew’s eyes. “Running has always been safe.”

And it is too much, all of a sudden. This boy with his absurdly tragic history and his fidgety hands and his need to run, run, run, and he’s sitting still. He’s sitting still next to _Andrew._

The distance between them disappears alarmingly fast. 

“Yes or no?” Andrew asks, his face just barely close enough for his breath to mingle with Neil’s. The other boy’s gaze drops to Andrew’s lips and darts back up. Neil’s eyes are wide; his legs twitch. He is silent for a long, intolerable moment, until something in him settles, and-

“Yes,” says Neil. 

And Andrew kisses him. And kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him. It’s just as good as the first time, and it’s hard to imagine a time when it won’t be. It is electrifying. It is brighter than anything Andrew has experienced before and it is shocking and - and safe. It’s safe. Neil has pinned his own hands behind his back even as he reciprocates with vigor - for Andrew. So Andrew will be comfortable. It is euphoric to the point of being nearly unbearable. 

When they both come away for air, Andrew promptly breaks a stolen paint balloon right over Neil’s head. Blue runs in rivulets past his eyes and down the bridge of his nose and over his freckled cheeks as Neil blinks in shock. He huffs a laugh, the paint creasing in the corners of his eyes, and leans in close once more. 

The feel of paint drying on Andrew’s own face is worth the grinned-through kiss Neil offers. 

* * *

Showered and changed into fresh clothes - Andrew’s hopes of wrecking Neil’s fabric seats thoroughly dashed - they walk back across the parking lot and slump into the front seats of Neil’s car. Neil’s hand is close enough to hold across the console, but Andrew does not take it and Neil does not insist. 

“Ice cream?” offers Neil. He’s shifted into drive by the time Andrew’s affirmative grunt makes it from his brain to his mouth. 

Every moment of this afternoon has been carefully engineered with Andrew in mind, and it is impossible to ignore. The thrill of being known is a small one, the barest glow in the hollow of Andrew’s throat, but it lights just the same. 

The parking lot of Mr. Cone is growing crowded with the early evening rush when they arrive - it’s only recently reopened, the warmer months finally drawing large crowds again, and the novelty has not yet worn off for Millport. 

Neli’s hands twitch like dying birds at his sides and his eyes do that _thing_ they do in public places - cataloguing faces, checking exits. Andrew offers his hand, palm up, subtly enough that the other boy can refuse if he wants. 

Neil’s hand in his is warm and a little sweaty, but when he squeezes tight and Neil’s eyes come back to the present Andrew cannot find it in himself to be repulsed by the feeling. It’s surprisingly nice, to be tethered to someone as they make their way to the loose line leading to the counter. Andrew is not overly fond of crowds himself, and this is grounding; he likes it, even though he can’t say he’d want his brother or Nicky to hold his hand like this. It’s nice because it’s Neil. 

When they get to the front of the line, Andrew orders something loaded with cookie dough and brownie chunks. Neil orders blueberry frozen yogurt because he is an animal. Andrew reminds himself that everyone has flaws. 

By some divine miracle, they find a picnic bench in a secluded area towards the back of the parking lot. They sit next to each other, not touching but close enough to feel each other’s body heat. Neil puts away his yogurt faster than Andrew’s seen him eat anything else in the time they’ve known each other. Andrew still finishes his ice cream first, but it’s enough to make him rethink his earlier condemnation of Neil’s choices. 

“Yogurt?”

“I like fruit,” Neil says, licking the back of his spoon. “It’s hard to come by on the road. Ice cream?” 

“It’s good,” Andrew says. Bee had mentioned once, early on, that his love of sweets was probably a way of self-medicating before he’d gotten on his prescription meds. Now it’s just comfortable - something he knows he will like, and he does. 

Neil nods, this answer enough for him. 

“Regionals are coming up, right?” he asks. “For soccer?”

Andrew makes a noise through the last of his ice cream that could be interpreted as “yeah.”

“I thought so, they are for track, too,” Neil says. “Can I come to your game this weekend?”

“Why?”

“I only ever see you play at practice,” Neil shrugs, “but it looks like you’re pretty good. Just figured I’d like to see a game before your season ends.” 

“Sure,” says Andrew. “No skin off my back if you want to waste a Friday night.” 

He may never stop being astounded by the way that Neil can read Andrew’s humor, comfort, pleasure, where others would only find abrasion. Because Andrew does preen a little under Neil’s praise, there is a warmth in his stomach at the thought of his - well - _whatever_ Neil is to him - coming to see him play, even if Andrew doesn’t really care about the sport. 

And Neil sees right through him as always, smiling crooked as he says, “I’ll be there.” 

* * *

Neil is doing a bad thing by hanging out with Andrew so much. Neil really, really likes Andrew. 

These are just barely allowed to coexist in his mind. Survival in a harsh world necessitates contradictions between ideals and actions - Mary knew that, made sure to drill it into Neil. 

And, perhaps even worse, Neil doesn’t _want_ to stop stealing moments with Andrew. How selfish, but entirely necessary. He tries as hard as he can to at least feel guilty as he does, but - well. Neil really likes spending time with Andrew. It’s impossible not to enjoy at least some of the time. 

Similarly, watching Andrew play soccer is infuriating and lovely. They are at Cherry Hill High School, a few hours from Millport, for regionals; Neil has never seen anyone with so much talent written into every line of their body, who absolutely refuses to give it voice. Still, Andrew’s intellect combined with his raw talent are a force to behold, even when he isn’t really trying. Getting to see Andrew delight in his torment of varsity darling Kevin Day, punting the ball into absurd corners of the field just to make him run for it, is an added bonus. 

The Millport High Foxes win, 3-1, advancing to districts, and Neil cheers loudly enough to more than make up for the sparsity of the away section. 

He meets Andrew as the team tromps towards the bus, and falls into step beside him on their way across the parking lot. 

“I was right,” Neil says. The faint pinch of Andrew’s eyebrows spells a question. “You’re incredible.” 

“Be still my beating heart,” Andrew says. He sounds unimpressed. He looks - not flattered, but maybe, faintly, pleased. Neil counts it as a victory.

“Would it kill you to be polite, Minyard?” A tall boy with frosted tips glances over his shoulder at them with a wry smile. Andrew flips him off. “Point taken. I’m Matt,” he says to Neil. He’s walking backwards now, without looking where he’s going, and Neil is a little awed. 

“Neil,” says Neil. “You looked good out there, too.” 

“Thanks,” says Matt, grinning. “Hey, Minyard, you coming to team dinner at the diner? Neil is welcome if he wants.” 

“Undecided,” says Andrew. Matt nods like this is reasonable, and turns forward, shuffling a bit to catch up with a girl that Neil recognizes as the team captain, Dan Wilds. 

Andrew looks at Neil sidelong, and says, “We can go, if you want.” 

“Do you want to?” asks Neil. 

Something in Andrew’s shoulders relaxes almost imperceptibly. He shrugs. 

“Aaron’s going.” 

That’s a yes, then. Neil has hung around Andrew long enough to see firsthand the mile-wide protective streak that was evident in his juvie records; Andrew’s triggers for violence are incredibly easy to spot when one knows what to look for. Neil still isn’t sure what the impetus for Andrew’s hypervigilance was - just because Neil clocks the exits of every room he enters doesn’t mean he thinks it’s normal - but Andrew’s definition of “at risk” for any member of his family is “out of his line of sight.” 

“Cool,” says Neil, as they come to a stop outside the door to the team bus. “Do you want a ride, or should I meet you there?”

“I drove to the school,” says Andrew. “I’ll see you there.” 

Andrew’s hand brushes against Neil’s before he steps onto the bus. It is barely noticeable, not even a whisper of pressure before it’s gone, but it shoots straight up Neil’s arm and into his chest. Andrew’s every move is deliberate. Andrew has eyes on everyone around him all the time. Andrew hates being touched. Andrew had done that on _purpose._

Andrew is already behind the tinted glass windows of the soccer team’s bus. Neil pulls the collar of his hoodie up over his mouth to hide his grin as he turns and walks back to his car. 

* * *

Neil pulls up to the parking lot of Millport’s 24-hour Diner Time well ahead of those on the bus, who had to stop at the school parking lot to pick up their own cars first. Andrew had texted him the address, but the 24 Hour is the only diner in town; it hadn’t been hard to find. 

He climbs out of his car and leans against the driver’s side door to wait. Within a few minutes, Andrew’s sleek black car peels into the parking lot, closely followed by a massive pickup truck. A few moments later a bubblegum-pink convertible pulls up at only a marginally more sedate pace. 

Most of the soccer team piles out of this assortment of vehicles, and introductions are a brief but friendly affair. Neil meets Dan-Matt-Seth-Allison-Kevin, waves hello to Renee, pointedly ignores Aaron. Apologies are made for the absence of Jeremy, Laila, Alvarez - they have a test this week and AP Stats is apparently a bitch. 

Several tables are already pushed together to fit the whole group when they walk through the doors, and the diner staff greet most of the team by name. The predictability of it all is simultaneously wonderful and anxiety-inducing. 

Andrew reaches up and squeezes the back of Neil’s neck once, discreetly, before leaving him behind to sit at the head of the table. Neil snags a seat to Andrew’s left, and is quickly boxed in by Kevin Day. The rest of the team files into their own seats in a jumble, loud chatter filling the small diner. 

Neil glances around briefly to see if the other patrons are taking notice, then forces himself to refocus on the lively argument happening at the other end of the table. The topic of discussion seems to be regarding the morality of square pancakes; Matt and Aaron are for, Allison is firmly against, Seth and Dan alternate between playing referee and antagonizing whichever side is most agitated. Neil isn’t sure there’s really a case for either side, but he enjoys the show.

When the waitress comes to take their orders (Allison requesting “exceptionally circular pancakes” in protest), Neil finds he hasn’t even glanced at the menu. He stumbles through ordering a grilled cheese - his regular smooth facade doesn’t come as easily as it once might have, and he tucks that realization aside to process later - and vaguely reciprocates the waitress’s megawatt customer service smile. 

Kevin somehow manages to rope Neil into a conversation on soccer strategy - a subject he knows very little about but finds himself oddly enthralled by - and by the time the food arrives, they’re analyzing the entirety of the night’s game in detail. 

Andrew is engaged in idle conversation with Renee, defending the merits of the German language as it relates to hostage negotiations, as he tucks into a plate of waffles. Neil assumes he must eat protein sometimes, but has yet to catch him in the act.

Kevin, meanwhile, gestures widely, waxing poetic about the other team’s forwards.

“Andrew, don’t you think-”

“Day,” Andrew says, the first time Neil has heard his tone properly threatening in ages, “if you attempt to talk about soccer with me before I have finished my meal, I will take your soup spoon and gut you with it.” 

Kevin scowls. Neil snorts. Renee smiles beatifically from across the table and smoothly changes the subject. 

The rest of dinner passes similarly - Kevin gets too excited about soccer, Allison nearly stabs Aaron over unsatisfactory stances regarding waffle structure, Renee has concerningly appropriate strategies for survival in a world post-EMP apocalypse. The whole diner is alight with talking and laughter, and as the evening draws to a close Neil’s breath catches in his throat at the warmth of it all. 

Crowded rooms, loud spaces, too many strangers - they’re all things that would have had him fleeing in a moment just a few weeks ago. But he’s anchored, here, with Andrew to his right, surrounded by this dysfunctional group that he’s finding he so badly wants to be a part of. It feels like a home. Like something permanent. Neil’s chest swells with hope, and his stomach fills with dread. 

Neil still isn’t allowed to have nice things like this. He knows that, even though he’d hoped it would be different when he started at Millport. It’s just… It’s hard. But Mary, in his head and in his veins, says, _Life is hard. But it’s better than being dead. You just have to survive._

Everything will fall apart eventually, and it will be Neil’s fault, but - well - he’ll have the memories, at least.

Brushing his grim train of thought aside, Neil pulls out his wallet to pay the check, only to find that Allison is taking care of the whole table. 

“Her parents are loaded,” Keven explains, “but shitty. She likes to spend their money.” 

“Thank you, Allison,” Matt and Dan chorus loudly. Allison flips them off. Briefly, Neil allows himself to smile. 

* * *

Neil’s phone buzzes a little after midnight and jolts him awake. He’s not used to getting texts in general, but especially not at odd hours. He sits up in bed, already alert and a little apprehensive, and unlocks his phone, the screen too bright for the darkness of his room. 

It’s from Andrew. _You up?_

Neil blinks at the screen as his eyes adjust, trying to process what exactly is happening. 

He types, _It’s a little late for a booty call._

The response is almost instantaneous. _But you responded,_ followed by the eyes looking to one side emoji. 

Neil isn’t totally sure what to say to that. He settles on the truth. 

_You woke me up._

This time Andrew’s response is slow to come. 

_Want to watch a movie?_

Neil waits to respond, for fear of seeming overeager, but he doesn’t need to think on it for long. It’s late, sure, but it’s a Saturday night - Sunday morning now, technically - and the glow of Friday’s team dinner has faded to something that would resemble loneliness, if Neil were willing to acknowledge it. Andrew’s company wouldn’t be unwelcome by any means. 

_Sure. Where?_

The dots that indicate that Andrew is typing appear and disappear a few times, before his last text comes through.

 _I’ll come to you._

Neil shrugs, locks his phone, and climbs out of bed to stretch, joints popping as he goes. By the time he’s used the bathroom and thrown a shirt on over his sweatpants, the obnoxious noise of the outer doorbell rings through his apartment. He buzzes Andrew in and unlocks his inner door before shuffling into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Andrew noisily lets himself in; he’d rapidly made the space his own over weeks’ worth of study sessions. He snags a packet of hot chocolate and a teabag from the recently-designated Beverage Drawer and meets Neil by the stove, where the kettle is on the verge of whistling. 

Neil takes it off the heat before the sound grows piercing in that way they both hate, and pours two mugs of hot water, to which Andrew methodically adds cocoa powder and tea, respectively. They wander to the couch and sit down next to each other, setting their mugs on the coffee table. 

Andrew holds out an arm and waits until their eyes catch; Neil nods, and Andrew pulls him in close, Neil slotting perfectly beneath Andrew’s shoulder. Neil is tense, and he can feel that Andrew is too. Neil knows how hard this is for Andrew - how touch is not a thing freely offered, for him or anyone else. Despite the way they seem to fit together, their edges are ridgid and unforgiving, neither willing to take more than is given.

“What movie did you want to watch?” Neil asks. 

“I think _Ferris Bueller’s Day Off_ is on Netflix,” Andrew says, reaching for the remote to turn on the TV. 

“Who?” 

Andrew tenses even more out of what seems to be sheer surprise. 

“It’s a classic,” he says, and though his voice remains even, Neil can hear the question in it. 

“I haven’t seen a lot of movies,” Neil says, and leaves it at that. 

Andrew shrugs. “ _Ferris Bueller_ it is.” 

The movie is better than Neil anticipated, even if it is absurd. And he and Andrew relax in minute degrees so that by the time Carmen wrecks his dad’s car there’s very little space between them at all. 

Neil is almost asleep by the post-credits scene, but comes back to himself when Andrew moves to stand. 

“You’re heading home?” 

Andrew nods. His eyes are so soft Neil is sure he’s seeing things.

“Hey - before you go,” Neil says, standing so he and Andrew are face to face. “I want to ask you something.” 

“Shoot.” 

“What - um. What are we doing?”

Andrew stares at him, face shuttering. 

“I don’t know how else to ask, but,” Neil continues, “whatever we are, is it-?”

“We,” Andrew says, gesturing stiffly between himself and Neil, “are nothing. This is nothing.” 

“Ah.” Neil can’t decide whether to be crestfallen or relieved. 

“I mean,” says Andrew, “ninety percent of the time I want to kill you.” 

Now there’s something - in the wrinkles by Andrew’s eyes, in the clench of his fists - that speaks to fear. And Neil gets it. They can’t be anything - Andrew can’t allow it to be yet. For the same reason that he won’t touch without asking, and keeps eyes on his brother whenever they’re somewhere new, he can’t trust Neil with this yet. Somehow, putting a label on this is too vulnerable for him, too dangerous. And that’s just fine. 

Moreover, a more analytical part of Neil thinks against his will, it’s workable. 

“And the other ten?” He opts for teasing.

“Oh, fuck off.” It seems to work.

“Do you think… Even though we’re not anything,” Neil starts. “Would you want to go to the prom with me?”

“...The prom.” 

“I’ve never been to one before,” says Neil. “But from what I’ve heard, plenty of people who aren’t anything still go together.” 

“They're nothing to write home about," Andrew looks unimpressed. "But your story gets more pathetic by the day.”

“Is that a yes?”

Andrew takes his time putting his mug in the sink and putting on his shoes, and he’s halfway out the door before he answers. He’s always loved making Neil sweat.

“Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> genuinely forgot that soccer is not typically co-ed lmao so bear w me on this one we’re Pretending  
> also neil definitely snorts when he laughs really hard - andrew hate-loves it
> 
> IM BACK!! moved into a new apartment, ended a 2+ year relationship, and started my last year of undergrad in biomedical engineering, so things have been hectic! updates will likely continue to be inconsistent going forward, but i'm gonna do my best!
> 
> come say hi on tumblr! @much-ado-about-exy


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s horrific, the way just sending a text settles some of the rolling in his stomach. 
> 
> [3:08] How nice do I have to look exactly
> 
> Even more horrific is the deeper calm that comes when Andrew texts back. 
> 
> [3:12] If you show up in jeans I will genuinely have no choice but to gut you
> 
> [3:13] Nicky might beat me to it actually
> 
> [3:13] We are on Prom Lockdown I’m in hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for the first 85% of this chapter: "the movies" -Nightly  
> also i still have no idea how soccer works. what are sports brackets. forgive me.

Besides Aaron’s irritating cheerfulness, life in the days leading up to prom is… surprisingly good. Bee calls it growth - opening up to one person, she says, opens him up to more than just that. Maybe she’s right; he feels less angry now, most of the time, and Neil has found that he likes to hang out with Kevin and Matt, which means that Andrew sees more of them too. This wouldn’t normally be considered a positive outcome, and Andrew still sn’t certain it is, but Renee smiles a little wider when she sees him now, invites him into conversations with Allison and Dan. Not that he ever contributes much, but she seems pleased just to have him at her side. 

At their most recent joint therapy session, Andrew and Aaron had discussed Prom and what it meant for them - cleared the air about their deal and acknowledged some of the toxicity in it. Worked on ways to be healthier and more open with each other. Their relationship is still growing, far from perfect, but healing. 

So, yeah, Prom is Friday, and things are pretty solid - which is not to say that Neil has  _ fixed _ or  _ saved _ Andrew or anything, just. Andrew’s a little less angry-brittle these days. A little less stretched-thin. Trusting someone, Bee says with a smile, will do that. 

The soccer team’s been narrowly knocked out of sectionals, but track hasn’t; Andrew sits in the bleachers and alternates between reading and watching as Neil runs lap after lap after lap Monday through Friday. The weather is warmer today than it has been all week. Andrew hates the stickiness of the heat but he likes watching Neil, so he tolerates it. 

He doesn’t move from the bleachers when practice ends, and, predictably, Neil comes to join him. He flops noisily onto the bench in front of Andrew and tips his head up and back to meet his eyes, face flushed.  _ Pretty. _ Andrew names  _ admiration _ as it flashes to the front of his mind, and then releases it just as quickly.

“Whatcha reading?” he asks. 

Andrew obligingly turns  _ Pride and Prejudice _ upside down for a moment so Neil can read the cover, then rights it and continues reading. Or, well. He has his eyes on the page. Kitty is doing something scandalous, Mrs. Bennett is in a tizzy, and Neil is cracking open a water bottle as he scrambles farther up the bleachers to peek over Andrew’s shoulder at the drama of it all.

Andrew glances at Neil before flipping the page to see if he’s ready, but-

“How do you understand any of this?”

-Neil is staring back at him. 

“With my eyes,” Andrew says drily, pointedly ignoring the fact that their noses are almost brushing. “Maybe if you used yours to look at the page instead of ogling me you’d have better luck.” 

“Maybe,” Neil says cheerfully, and does not break eye contact. 

“Ninety one percent,” Andrew sighs and turns away, closing his book and packing it away in his backpack. Neil obligingly stands as well, slinging his duffel over his shoulder. 

“Are we studying today?” Neil asks. 

Their study sessions - which these days more often than not devolve into scavenging for snack food, making fun of terrible Netflix shows, and occasionally making out - are a near-daily tradition at this point. That Neil wants them, wants time with him - unobtrusively, taking “no” at face value whenever it’s said - warms Andrew, in some distant, barely-acknowledged corner of his mind. Unfortunately, today that corner will go unacknowledged. 

“Not today,” says Andrew. “Tux pickup.” 

Neil nods, excitement sparking in the wrinkled edges of an otherwise neutral expression. He stumbles down the bleachers after Andrew anyway, warming anyway, and it scratches at the itch of Andrew’s preemptive irritation at the ordeal that is soon to follow. He has dreaded this process just about as much as he’s dreaded anything since he told Nicky that he would be going to the Prom with Neil. At least today, the Hemmick-Klose-Minyard Group Shopping Extravaganza will reach its ultimately heinous finale in the form of tuxedo retrieval, modeling, and last-minute alterations at the hands of surprisingly adept tailor Erik Hemmick-Klose. 

“Don’t look so thrilled,” Neil says, a teasing tilt to his lips that makes Andrew want to gut him and kiss him in equal measure. They’re completely exposed in the parking lot, though, so a withering glare will have to do.  _ Neil _ has the gall to  _ laugh. _

“Just be happy I didn’t drag you along,” Andrew grumbles. “I don’t know why I let you shop for your own suit when you could barely dress yourself for Gordon’s party.” 

“I didn’t shop for my own,” Neil says, rolling his eyes. “My Uncle Stuart picked it out for me. You’ll just have to trust him.” 

This does come as some surprise; Andrew has been to Neil’s apartment enough times to note a distinct lack of any adult influence. Stuart hasn’t been home once while Andrew’s been there. Neil says he’s often away on business trips, which would explain the man’s absence. But it is interesting that he would choose now to suddenly become invested in his ward’s social life. 

“I don’t know the man,” Andrew says as they approach his car, opening the driver’s door. 

“But you know me,” Neil grins, lopsided. “And I trust him.” 

“That is the opposite of reassuring.” 

“Worry less,” Neil laughs, leaning against the hood of the car. “I’ll look presentable. Have fun with your family!” 

Andrew is almost certain he will not, but Neil steps back from the hood, waves, and continues the trek down the parking lot towards his own beater, so Andrew really has nothing better to do than to head home. 

As expected, he regrets this almost instantly.

Nicky is a bundle of excited energy and pride, and he’s ushering both Andrew and Aaron out towards the family minivan almost as soon as they’ve walked through the door. Erik follows at a pace that is only marginally more sedate, locking the door behind them and using the key fob to unlock the van in the same movement. 

“Are you two excited?” Erik asks as he tosses the car keys to Nicky and climbs into the passenger seat. 

Aaron snorts and shrugs noncommittally, and Andrew does neither, simply settling into the back seat and buckling his seatbelt. 

Erik continues, undeterred. “The tailor called earlier today to say everything was finished, so that shouldn’t take too long.” 

“And then,” Nicky picks up the thread as he starts the car, “we just have to grab your boutonnieres and corsage from the florist! Andrew, has Neil told you what color he’s wearing yet? I’d really hate for it to clash.” 

“He hasn’t,” Andrew says. “I don’t think he knows.” 

Nicky looks minorly scandalized. “Does he not have a suit? We can - y’know - get him one, if he needs.” 

“His uncle is buying him one,” Andrew responds. “I truly don’t think it’s occurred to him to ask what it looks like.” 

The rest of the car ride is relatively calm, with Nicky and Erik nostalgically reflecting on their own high school dances, asking about Katelyn’s dress and Aaron’s plans for Prom night, discussing what to have for dinner. Andrew doesn’t contribute much, but his family knows better than to expect that from him. 

In the tailor’s parking lot, Erik gently shoves the twins’ suits into the trunk in a flurry of crinkling protective plastic and garment bags. At the florist, Nicky’s chatter with the woman behind the counter is only slightly more manic than usual. The drive home is only moderately rushed. 

Their barely-bridled enthusiasm would probably be funny if Andrew didn’t know what it was leading up to: the Final Fitting. 

As soon as Nicky parks the van, the ordeal begins. Erik grabs the suits, Nicky cradles the boutonnieres, and Andrew and Aaron drag their feet. 

But alas, all the procrastination in the world is not enough to save them from the poking, prodding, fluttering, cooing, brushing, smoothing, plucking, and general doting that they are beset with immediately upon exiting their rooms with tuxes on. 

Aaron’s suit is black with a white dress shirt and a pale pink tie that Andrew is nauseatingly certain matches Katelyn’s dress. 

Andrew’s, meanwhile, is black on black with a deep red tie. It is nice, very well made, and Andrew looks nice in it. He knows this. But if Nicky says it one more time while tearily smoothing down the collar of Andrew’s dress shirt, Andrew may become violent. 

“You both just - oh, man, you both look so  _ handsome, _ ” Nicky bubbles. 

Erik, standing next to him, nods enthusiastically. 

“I knew that Tender Buttons was the right tailor,” he says, sounding a little choked up himself. “They always do great work.” 

Aaron smiles thinly. Andrew does not smile at all. 

_ Discomfort,  _ he thinks. His skin crawls under the weight of their gaze.

“We’re hovering,” says Nicky. 

“We are,” says Erik.

“But look at them,” Nicky cries, “they’re all grown up. At my senior prom, I never in a million years thought I would get- oh, this is sappy.”

“It is,” says Erik, but he’s smiling in a fond way that grosses Andrew out. 

“We love you both,” Nicky says, sobering. “And you look very nice and grown up and lovely. And we’re very proud of you. And now we are going to leave you alone and go make dinner.”

When Nicky smiles at them this time before heading down the stairs, Andrew feels something soften in his own expression in return. He fleetingly names  _ affection _ and  _ pride _ and  _ love _ , and lets those three words glow in his mind for a moment. 

Aaron clears his throat awkwardly, and Andrew turns to face him. Erik has also gone downstairs, leaving the twins on the upstairs landing alone. 

“I just wanted to say,” Aaron says, pauses, clears his throat again. “I just wanted to say thanks. This is - I’m - I’m really happy. I- I hope… I hope you are too.” 

Andrew stares at his brother, rolling  _ thanks _ around in his mind, plucking at  _ happy. _

He nods, once. 

“I am.” 

* * *

The days leading up to Prom have been some of the most miserable of Neil’s life, and that is - in his humble opinion - saying something, given his history. He has spent the past two weeks stewing in guilt and anxiety, interspersed with rare pockets of Andrew-induced joy which then prompt even more guilt and anxiety. It feels cruel that his only respite from the semi-constant uncomfortable squirming in his gut also happens to be the object of that discomfort. But then, in his more remorseful moments, Neil can, and often does, convince himself that he deserves that cruelty. 

His saving grace, that Prom is little more than a day away and will be over soon, is equally dreadful. Because, well. What does he have to look forward to, after that? Approximately nothing. 

This is a lot to dwell on, though, so he welcomes the distraction of the garment bag hanging from his apartment door when he arrives home Friday afternoon. There is a note, in jagged script, pinned to the rough fabric of the bag. 

_ Neil-  
_ _ Have fun. Be safe. Your boutonniere is in the refrigerator.   
_ _ -Stuart _

His spine jolts with familiar paranoia at the thought of someone in his space without his permission, but if he can’t trust his uncle’s people, then he is well and truly fucked, so. He shakes out his hands, unlocks the door, and drapes the suit over the couch on his way to the kitchen. 

The flower on the boutonniere, as he pulls it out of the refrigerator, is a striking royal blue. He contemplates it for a few moments before replacing it and retrieving the garment bag from the couch. When he unzips it he sees that, against the black background of his shirt and suit jacket, the tie is a matching, rich shade of blue. He’s fairly certain that the flowers are supposed to match his date’s outfit, not his own, but he also isn’t too bothered at the potential faux pas. 

The tux fits well, when he tries it on, with enough room in the shoulders to move, but not so much that he looks like “a homeless child” - Andrew’s words. He notes a surplus of fabric at the waist that looks suspiciously like it was meant to holster a gun, and promptly replaces the suit on its hanger. 

From there, he steps directly into the shower, eager to wash the grime of track practice off of himself, and as he showers, his brain takes the opportunity to spiral downward once again. 

Why is he even going to this Prom? His “job,” as per Katelyn’s instructions, is essentially finished; all that attending the actual dance will do is make it even harder to say goodbye to Andrew once he finds out the truth. But Neil had seen a  _ life _ , a whole  _ world _ he’d never been privy to before, through Andrew. A world with family, with friends who shore you up and offer you soda and conversation at parties, with touch that doesn’t hurt, and with solid, sturdy, genuinely good people like Andrew in it. And Neil, knowing that he can never fully be  _ part _ of that world, can’t help wanting to sit in it for just a little bit longer. For just one more moment. And, maybe, another after that. 

He isn’t proud of it. But, there it is. 

He’ll tell Andrew himself, after the Prom. And he can’t see Andrew wanting anything to do with him after that - the other boy hates liars, hates lies, hates the very essence of who Neil has been taught and made to be - and Neil can’t blame him. But he owes Andrew that honesty, he thinks. Even if he can’t bring himself to offer it up sooner. 

Neil eats dinner in a haze, goes to bed early, and sleeps fitfully. 

His early morning run the next day is twice as long as usual, and somehow still unsatisfactory. He returns home with the itch of adrenaline still crawling under his skin. He tries to ignore it as he showers. As he stares blankly at his homework for a couple hours. As he mechanically makes and eats lunch. 

He turns on the television, turns it back off again, and shuffles to the bathroom to start getting ready. 

After ten minutes of trying to decide what “presentable” means with regards to his hair, he caves, and texts Andrew. It’s horrific, the way just sending a text settles some of the rolling in his stomach. 

_ [3:08] How nice do I have to look exactly _

Even more horrific is the deeper calm that comes when Andrew texts back. 

_ [3:12] If you show up in jeans I will genuinely have no choice but to gut you _

_ [3:13] Nicky might beat me to it actually _

_ [3:13] We are on Prom Lockdown I’m in hell _

Neil laughs - it’s a soft exhale more than anything, but he’s smiling as he responds. 

_ [3:15] No jeans, I promise. Clothes that fit are guaranteed. My hair is not behaving, though. Will Nicky kill me for that? _

_ [3:15] Also, Prom Lockdown? _

Andrew’s response comes almost immediately.

_ [3:15] Your hair never behaves.  _

_ [3:16] Prom. Lockdown. Brace yourself. _

* * *

The assault begins the moment Neil is through the door.

“Neil, it’s so nice to see you again!” Nicky says effusively, fluttering hands over Neil’s tie, his hair, his shoulders. “You look so cute!”

Neil grimaces in what he hopes is a close enough approximation of polite gratitude - he is genuinely glad that his hair has passed muster - and weathers the subsequent photo-barrage-plus-family-dinner-buffet to the best of his ability. When he and Andrew exchange boutonnieres - the flower Andrew offers Neil matches the deep red of his own tie, making them look like a matched set - Nicky tearily snaps picture after picture as Erik stands nearby, stoically not-crying. 

Luckily, Aaron and Katelyn are at Katelyn’s house with her friends, so at least Neil doesn’t have to contend with them. 

After what feels like hours - but is likely closer to forty-five minutes - of “one more picture!” and “you two look  _ too  _ adorable!” and “are you sure you don’t need a ride?” Neil and Andrew finally extricate themselves from the foyer, closing the front door firmly behind them. 

At last, standing on the front porch outside the Hemmick-Klose-Minyard house, lamplight golden across his cheekbones, Andrew faces Neil and Neil stares back.

“You look traumatized,” Andrew says, eyebrows quirked and mouth loose with amusement. “I told you to brace yourself.”

“Your family…” Neil starts. “They’re - they really love you. It’s cool.”  _ It’s overwhelming. _

“Somehow less tragic than I expected.” Andrew unpins his gaze - laughter still in the lines of his mouth, in the vague crinkles at the corners of his eyes - from Neil’s and instead sweeps it critically over Neil’s suit. 

Neil can’t help a soft huff of laughter. Andrew is  _ cool  _ and Andrew is  _ effortless _ and Andrew doesn’t give a shit about  _ anything _ and - Andrew is also really,  _ really _ vain. Of course, that doesn’t stop Neil’s breath from hitching in his throat as Andrew’s hands flip up Neil’s collar and deftly redo his tie, straightening the knot and lingering just a  _ little _ longer than they have to when they fold the collar back down. 

The heat in Neil’s cheeks is mirrored in Andrew’s when their eyes meet again. 

“Thanks,” Neil says. He sounds more breathless than he’d like. He smiles. 

Andrew rolls his eyes and says, “We’re going to be late.”

His hands flex in and out of fists as he leads to the way to his car, and Neil trails happily behind. 

Andrew is beautiful, Neil thinks, staring at the other boy’s profile as he shifts gears, one hand on the steering wheel while the other taps out a rhythm on the car door. The windows are rolled down and his hair is tousled by the resulting breeze. Neil doesn’t know a lot about this sort of thing, but he’s pretty sure - like, 90%, at this point - that he really,  _ really _ likes Andrew. He so desperately doesn’t want this to end after tonight. 

And maybe - well - maybe he could just… not ever tell Andrew that this was the way things started. Maybe they could be fine. Andrew hates dishonesty, yeah, but maybe Neil could tell this one last, selfish lie and - and they could have this. He lets the thought linger, dangerous, in his mind for a bare, hopeful moment. And then he crushes it. How could he be happy with that, with who he is now? Maybe Mary Hatford’s son could have lived with himself; Neil Josten thinks he probably can’t. Guilt ravages, and he doesn’t know when dishonesty became a sin in his mind, but the damage has been done.

“Staring,” Andrew says, and Neil doesn’t even try to deny that he is. Andrew switches the hand he’s driving with, presses two fingers to Neil’s jaw, and gently shoves his face away. 

They park in the far lot at the school, where they always do, albeit usually in separate cars. 

As Andrew kills the engine, silence fills the car, and with it so does tension. Neil’s never been the biggest fan of crowds, and with the added current of anxiety undercutting the whole evening, he’s about ready to leap out of his skin. He can practically see the stress radiating off of himself in waves. 

Andrew surveys him for several long moments, and then says, “Can I kiss you?”

The question isn’t hopeful in its delivery; in fact, it’s flat enough that if Neil didn’t know Andrew as well as he does at this point, he would think that Andrew doesn’t care one way or the other what Neil’s answer is. But this is intentional. The asking itself is indicative of interest - the tone carefully constructed both to avoid pressuring Neil and to deflect any potential rejection off of Andrew. Neil’s chest aches with knowing, with the intimacy of understanding the unsaid. 

Neil has gotten good, over the years, at not becoming so attached to anything that he’ll miss it when he inevitably leaves it behind. But, he thinks with a pang of surprise and a twist of regret, he’s really going to miss this. 

“Yes.” And Andrew leans in. 

Kissing Andrew shuts off Neil’s brain in the best way - it’s not like the fuzz of alcohol, where he’s conscious enough to panic over the loss of control. It is a pure, jittery-calm-staticky whiteout. Andrew’s lips are soft, and he does things with his tongue that turn the anxious back of Neil’s mind into soda fizz, and when he bites at Andrew’s bottom lip the noise the other boy makes soothes certain parts of him and electrifies others. It grounds him, tethers him to something real and solid, and at the same time launches him into the stratosphere. 

Yeah, Neil’s going to miss this. He feels like he’s missing a piece of himself the moment Andrew pulls away, cheeks flushed, mouth wet - how is Neil supposed to live the rest of his life knowing that this is what he could have had?

“We should head inside,” Neil breathes into the warm quiet. He can’t sit in his own regret any longer. Tonight is supposed to be, on some level at least, fun.

Andrew nods. They head inside. 

There’s a photographer right inside the door to the gym, stationed in front of a garish orange and white balloon arch that each incoming student is obligated to take a picture beneath. Neil spends the duration of their time beneath the arch pulling faces at Andrew to see if he can get him to laugh - he’s very nearly successful, but he can tell from the pitying look on the photographer’s face as they leave that that isn’t apparent to anyone but Neil himself. 

Further into the gym, music blares, students dance, and almost before Neil’s shoulders have the chance to tense at the sight of the crush of bodies, Andrew’s hand is on his wrist, warm and present. 

It’s soothing. Neil notes each accessible exit he can see anyway, but that’s no one’s business but his own. 

Prom is, for all the associated fanfare, largely unimpressive. Dim lighting and crepe paper ribbons strung artfully from the walls do little to disguise the fact that this is, in fact, the Millport High gymnasium, complete with basketball championship banners and tucked-away bleachers. 

But Neil is determined to make the best of it. They bump into Renee early on; she’s sitting and eating french fries and tiny hot dogs around a confetti-strewn table with Allison, Seth, Dan, and Matt, but she does her best to include everyone in the conversation. Andrew is mostly quiet, seated between Renee and Neil, but Neil can tell it’s a comfortable silence. 

Eventually, after strongarming everyone present into a series of increasingly absurd selfies, Allison drags Seth away to dance, and Matt and Dan soon follow. 

“I’m glad you came,” Renee says, smiling at both of them -  _ both, _ and Neil doesn’t know when he’d started thinking of Renee as a friend despite her unnervingly placid demeanor, but he has, and oh, there’s another relationship he’s going to lose. Ouch. “Are you having fun?”

Andrew grunts noncommittally, and Neil nods, and Renee seems pleased with their answers. They sit quietly for a few minutes, picking at fries, Renee occasionally pointing out a dress that she likes or Andrew pointing out a particularly heinous fashion statement, until Renee stands. 

“I’m not much of a dancer,” she says, brushing crumbs off the skirt of her lavender dress, “but I might as well give it a shot tonight before Allison and Dan have to beg. Would either of you like to join me?”

Andrew actually snorts, but Neil shrugs. Might as well, right? He doesn’t anticipate enjoying it overly much, but he’s also never tried, so why not? 

“Do you mind if I go?” he asks Andrew. “I can stay with you if you’d prefer.” 

Andrew shakes his head no, and flicks a hand at him dismissively. 

“Have fun,” he says. “I’ll watch.” 

_ I’ll watch _ meaning both  _ I cannot wait to see this _ and  _ I’ll keep an eye out for you. _ Neil appreciates approximately half of the sentiment, but follows Renee to the corner of the dance floor that Allison and the rest have already claimed nonetheless. 

Dancing, it turns out, is not Neil’s thing. He is informed of this by Allison and then by Seth in quick succession, within five minutes of him joining the group. He finds he doesn’t mind too much though; the music is fine, if still too loud for his taste, and Matt also kind of sucks at it, so he’s not alone. It’s not something he’d choose to do  _ regularly,  _ but he also doesn’t hate it. 

He stays for a few songs, occasionally turning to meet Andrew’s amused gaze across the room and grin back, until, on one such turn, instead of Andrew, he finds himself face to face with Katelyn, standing arm in arm with a pleased-looking Aaron. 

She grins at him, bouncing a little on her toes, and  _ wow _ she’s really tall with heels on. Neil scowls when he realizes he has to crane his neck to look at her, and takes a step back. 

“Hi!” she says, yelling to be heard over the music. “Can we chat for a minute?” 

Neil sighs. She’s asking, but she isn’t really, and this isn’t a scene he’s interested in causing tonight. 

“Sure.” He extricates himself from his tangle of soccer players, sends Andrew a look that he hopes says,  _ I’ll be right back, don’t worry _ and not  _ I am intensely uncomfortable please help _ , even though that is exactly what he’s thinking, and follows the couple resignedly to the alcove that holds the entrances to both the girls’ and boys’ bathrooms. 

The quiet rings in Neil’s ears, the bass from the music just barely reaching them.

“Tonight has been awesome,” Katelyn says, breathless. “So, so cool. And we couldn’t have gotten it without you.”

Neil shrugs, and Katelyn frowns. Does she expect him to be pleased that they’ve gotten the Prom night of their dreams this way?

“We just wanted to say thank you,” Aaron continues. 

“Yeah,” says Katelyn. “We really appreciate you, like, pretending to date Andrew and everything! And now you’re done!”

Neil casts about for anything, anything at all that can save him from this conversation he can’t stand with people he hates even more. He even glances over his shoulder, desperate, but his stomach drops through the soles of his feet and straight to the floor as his eyes land on-

“So don’t worry about having to hang around him any longer if you don’t want to. You’re a free man, Neil!”

-Andrew standing in the entrance to the alcove, his expression  _ terrible _ before it goes carefully, pointedly blank. And then he’s gone.

Katelyn must see Neil’s face drop, because she giggles a little as she continues, oblivious.    


“Oh, and don’t worry.” She mimes locking her lips. “Your sordid past is safe with me! I’m  _ excellent _ at keeping secrets.”

But right now that’s the last thing on his mind. All he can see when he closes his eyes is the horrible, potent emotion he’d seen on Andrew’s face in the moment before it had shuttered.  _ Shock, confusion, understanding, anger,  _ and, clearest of all,  _ pain. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Dreaded Chapter :\\\\\ but we're nearing the end folks!! this chapter's a doozy, but i'm on winter break until february so you can probably expect slightly more regular updates :)
> 
> come say hi on tumblr! @much-ado-about-exy


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew thinks of every microexpression he’s read into, every so-called glimpse into Neil’s more private thoughts he’s been granted. How much of that had been entirely false? How much of the Neil that he’d thought he’d known, that he’d thought he’d earned his way to knowing, was a lie?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is being posted unedited because i am Tired Of Looking At It. i'll do some editing for flow/grammar/Things Making Sense later, but it shouldn't be anything major.

Andrew can’t breathe. He drives home. He slams the front door open and doesn’t bother to close it, ignores Nicky and Erik’s concern as he storms through the foyer and up the stairs and into his bedroom, tears off his tie and then the jacket of his suit, and still, he can’t breathe. 

He heaves for air, sinking to the floor and tucking himself into the first corner he finds. Wars with himself. This is the worst thing to ever happen to him. This is nothing. It is terrible, horrible, tearing him apart and he will never weather this storm. What storm? The waves are calm, today, as they always are for him, placid lake that he is. He is hurt, hurting, wounded. He is right as _fucking_ rain, because none of it _fucking_ mattered to him anyway. He and Neil weren’t anything, Andrew had made that abundantly clear, so what if the sentiment went both ways. So what if every crooked smile and flash of joy had been a lie. So. What. 

So Andrew can’t fucking _breathe,_ is what. 

So maybe - _maybe_ \- Andrew had cared - and this is why he doesn’t fucking _do_ that. Fuck what Bee says, fuck what little joy he’d felt these past few weeks, they are nothing in the face of the hurt he’s bowled over by now because he let himself feel something for once. Because he let himself _trust_ someone. _Walls go both ways,_ Bee’s voice mocks him in his head. And isn’t that the fucking truth. Neil had looked at Andrew’s walls, had honored them even as he wormed his way inside, and they’d crumbled. And now there’s nothing left to stand between Andrew and this onslaught of _embarrassment-hurt-betrayal-shame-anger-sadness-loss,_ emotions surfacing almost too quickly to name. 

Katelyn, Aaron, Neil - who else had known? Had Nicky? Had _Bee?_ Katelyn isn’t surprising, but the others - Andrew is scrabbling for purchase on a sheer cliff face, searching for someone he knows he can trust, for someone who wouldn’t have lied to him, and comes up blank. For years in foster care he’d known he couldn’t rely on anyone but himself, but when he’d found Aaron and Nicky and Erik he’d thought that _finally_ \- well. It doesn’t matter what he’d thought. Because if he can’t trust Aaron, if he can’t trust _Neil,_ Neil who he’d known _so well-_

Andrew thinks of every microexpression he’s read into, every so-called glimpse into Neil’s more private thoughts he’s been granted. How much of that had been entirely false? How much of the Neil that he’d thought he’d known, that he’d thought he’d _earned_ his way to knowing, was a lie?

He is simply angry, he decides, lets the inconsequential remainder of his tangle of emotions melt and meld into fury like he’s smelting metal, pushes the last dissenting interstitials of hurt down, down, down until he can’t even tell they’re there. And then the anger, too, burns and burns until it runs out of fuel, and then it fizzles out. 

And at last he is blank. He is carefully, purposefully blank. 

Andrew prides himself on his control, his ability to present a blasè facade even as his world crumbles around him. He draws on that now, schools his face flat, tamps down the last embers of his turmoil, and thinks.

Katelyn had known. Aaron had known. Neil, obviously, had known. If Andrew thinks about it logically, the odds that anyone else had are slim. If the soccer team had known, Renee would have heard, and Renee would have told him. He ignores the traitorous voice that whispers, _but would she? Because if Aaron could lie, if Neil could lie-_ because he has to. Renee is _good,_ in a way Andrew has no interest in being and could not learn to be if he tried. And she cares about him. She would have told him. And Nicky, even if he were cruel enough to keep that sort of secret from Andrew (which he _isn’t,_ he isn’t, he wouldn’t have spent months and years adopting and raising Andrew just to be terrible _now_ \- but wouldn’t he? _Ugh,_ his brain is _the worst_ ) he wouldn’t have been able to - Andrew’s seen him trying to keep anniversary plans a secret from Erik, and even those white lies never hold up for long. 

Bee could have known, he muses. Patient confidentiality and all. But he finds he’s less hurt by that, maybe because it’s her job to keep secrets just as much as it is her job to dispense breathing exercises and help him sift through trauma. She wouldn’t have told anyone _else._

So, for the most part, it’s likely that his shame is, at least, contained to a small circle of people. 

Which brings him to his next question, which is: why would Aaron _do_ something like this? Why would Neil? Andrew doesn’t trust Katelyn as far as he could throw her, could not, quite frankly, give a shit about what she thinks about or does to Andrew as long as she is not in his direct line of sight or hurting Aaron, so he can’t say he finds her influence in this notable in any way. His negative-of-center apathy towards her twitches in the direction of hatred, sure, but it’s not like he’d ever had a great opinion of her anyway. 

Aaron, meanwhile. Neil. Did Aaron hate him that much, that he would convince a random stranger to toy with Andrew’s (perceivedly limited) feelings? Was Neil just - a truly shitty person, that he would say yes to that sort of thing?

Because, Andrew won’t ever win TIME Magazine’s Person of the Year, but he also doesn’t think he’d ever do something like this. Primarily because it seems like a lot of effort, to get someone to care about you that much, to think they know you and to care about the you that they think they know, for very little payoff. But also because Andrew knows better than to toy with someone’s trust. Knows how it can fuck a person up, and for how long. It feels unnecessarily cruel, even to someone who is often a dick, which Andrew can begrudgingly admit that he is. Especially when that someone is your brother. 

So, Andrew is angry. He trusts, he goes to therapy, he works on himself and his relationships and his future, and this is what he gets. The world is cruel to him, and can’t offer kindness without pain in equal measure, and this is a lesson, a rule of the universe, he learned a long time ago - it’s hard to believe that he’s forgotten, after only a few short years in warmth and safety - but still. It sucks, and he’s pissed.

Andrew’s pissed, and he’s- all that other shit he isn’t feeling right now, thank you very much, and- and he’s uncomfortable, he realizes, his focus expanding beyond the ravaged expanse of his mind for the first time in he-doesn’t-know-how-long. It’s warm, in his room, and the dress shirt he’s wearing is too tight and the texture of it and his pants and his dress shoes is _loud,_ even though he knows that isn’t the right word for it. 

He thinks of Fork Theory. _What forks can you remove right now?_ Bee asks in his memory. He stands up, stretching achingly stiff muscles, and changes into sweatpants and his largest sweatshirt. He leaves his armbands on. Andrew can breathe.

He is furious and aching and the landscape inside of his brain, behind walls behind walls, is dystopian. But he can breathe. 

Andrew crawls into bed, curls himself small, and, chest throbbing, he sleeps. 

He wakes to knocking at his door, and Nicky’s uncertain voice. 

“Andrew?” Nicky says. “Are you- well- we’re- um. Erik and I made waffles? If you want breakfast?”

Andrew, still waking bit by bit, unwraps himself from the cocoon he’d made of his comforters when the air conditioner kicked in late in the night, stretches. There is a moment where he can’t remember why Nicky sounds so - _worried, anxious, sad_ \- and then in the next moment his stomach rolls with remembering and he thinks he might throw up. 

Nevertheless, he peels himself out of bed and shuffles to his door, taking long enough that he hears Nicky’s footsteps receding down the stairs before he opens it. Waffles are good. He can do waffles. Maybe whipped cream; Erik makes his own, some weekends, and it’s heaven. Yeah, Andrew can do waffles. 

Or, he can, until he steps into the kitchen and Aaron is sitting there, drinking orange juice. Suddenly, Andrew can’t do waffles, or remove forks, build walls - he is not vague numbness and nausea and hurt - all he is, is _anger._

The next thing he knows, Aaron is on the floor, his chair overturned, Andrew on top of him, and Nicky is yelling. Someone is growling questions as Aaron keeps up a choked litany of “what the fuck what the fuck what the _fuck”_ and after a moment Andrew realizes it’s him. 

“-Why the fuck would you _do_ something like that you fucking _promised_ I put up with you for fucking _years_ and _this_ is what you do to me I-”

And then Erik has strong hands wrapped hard around Andrew’s shoulders and he’s hauling him back as Nicky pries Aaron off the floor and Andrew _snarls_ and he’s angry angry _angry_ untl-

“What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?” asks Aaron. 

-until he’s cold. Just like that, the drawbridge slams shut and Andrew is a placid lake, menacing, murky depths maybe hiding something unsavory, maybe hiding something that waits to consume you, but smooth, to the touch, to the naked eye. 

“What is _wrong_ with me?” Andrew asks, voice flat, face flat, mind howling. “What is _wrong_ with me is that I clearly made a mistake agreeing to stay here with a _brother_ like you.”

He sounds bored. He knows he does, sees it in the way that Nicky and Erik flinch, in the way Aaron’s angry expression twitches, and he is gratified.

“Andrew, Aaron” Nicky says, and his eyes are bright with tears, “what happened?” 

Andrew sits in an empty chair, pointedly nudges Aaron’s overturned one with his toe, and sets a waffle on a plate. He is control, and restraint, and piling homemade whipped cream high on a waffle that is still warm. 

“What _happened,_ ” Andrew says when Aaron fails to speak, topping his whipped cream mountain with chocolate sauce, “is that Aaron and his _girlfriend_ decided that the only way to possibly overcome their insurmountable romantic odds and be together in the face of _my_ disapproval was to convince a transfer student who didn’t know how _scary_ I was to pretend to… like me.” 

Even through the _smooth_ that he is now, it is difficult to force out the embarrassing truth. 

But he ignores Nicky’s gasp in favor of licking chocolate off the tines of his fork and saying, “Unkind, yes?” 

“Aaron,” Erik says, voice grave, face equally so, “is this true?” 

Aaron nods, face crumpling further, crossing the line from anger to guilt to regret to misery to apathy in the blink of an eye. 

“It- it seemed like the only way,” he says, “at the time.” 

“Aaron, that is _beyond_ cruel,” Nicky says tightly. “Go to your room. Now.” 

Aaron’s mental progress, over the years, has been measured in rebellion. When he was first adopted by Nicky, he was obedient to a fault and accepted punishments without a word. These days, he tends to put up more of a fight; Nicky, Erik, and Bee all see that as a good sign. Right now, though, Aaron nods stiffly and shuffles out of the kitchen, righting his chair before he goes. 

There is silence, for a moment. Erik and Nicky have a silent conversation over Andrew’s head and Andrew continues eating his waffle, unruffled. 

“Andrew,” Erik says, sitting in Aaron’s chair and taking Nicky’s hand. “Are you-”

“I am going to Renee’s.” Andrew stands abruptly, letting his fork clatter to his plate, and storms upstairs before either of his guardians can say anything stupid. 

In the safety of his bedroom, he puts on jeans and fires off a text to Renee in rapid succession, keeping his hoodie on, and then marches down the hall to brush his teeth. By the time he’s done, he has an invitation to the Walker household and his hands buzz with anticipation. He needs to hit something, and Renee, who is sharp knives shrink wrapped in a compassionate veneer, will be kind enough to hit back. 

He’s so focused on keeping it together long enough to get to Renee’s that he almost doesn’t notice Aaron standing in the hallway outside his bedroom door. Andrew stops. Stares. Gets bored of waiting, and shrugs, turning towards the stairs. 

“Wait,” says Aaron. 

Andrew freezes at the top of the staircase and doesn’t turn around. Their house is almost never silent, Nicky always playing music or Erik listening to a podcast or Aaron yelling at soccer games on the television, but now Andrew can hear the gust of the bracing breath Aaron takes. 

“I’m sorry,” Aaron says, voice tight, teeth gritted. 

That was hard, for Aaron, Aaron who hates being wrong and hates showing his hand and hates the vulnerability in an apology offered, a hand outstretched, with no guarantee that anyone will take it. Andrew doesn’t give a shit. 

“Interesting.” 

He makes it halfway down the stairs before Aaron finds his voice again.

“Andrew, you asshole, _wait,_ ” he says, and this time he sounds properly angry. “It- Neil-”

And now Andrew stops. He turns around, tilts his chin up to look in Aaron’s general direction. What, exactly, does his brother have to say about Neil? What could he possibly think was so important that he would put himself at very real risk of physical harm to say it?

Aaron visibly deflates as their eyes meet, but his expression remains sullen. 

“He… He didn’t want to do it,” Aaron mutters. “I- Katelyn had something on him - she never told me what - but-”

Aaron seems to be looking for something in Andrew’s face to hold onto, but slides right off his bored expression and trails off. Nevertheless, _blackmail_ is an interesting angle. There’s no reason, of course, to believe his brother after the events of last night, but - he seems sincere. 

Andrew walks down the stairs and out the front door without another word. 

Renee meets him on her front porch like always, sneakers tied and hair pulled back. He’s sure she must have questions - why had he left the prom so early, without telling at least her, why does he want to fight _now_ of all times - but she just smiles in greeting. This is why she’s Andrew’s best friend; he acknowledges a distant moment of fierce gratitude for her and then settles back into his numbness with practiced ease. 

Behind the park, Renee knocks Andrew to the ground three times before he opens his mouth to speak. 

“He was lying.”

“Who was lying?” Renee sits in the grass beside him. The careful space she leaves between them, the way she doesn’t force eye contact, are both considerations that he hates and appreciates in equal measure. The care makes him feel fragile, or like she thinks he is, but he knows that without the space he’d feel even worse, and he knows Renee doesn’t think he’s breakable or violent, so he does his best to stay civil. 

“Neil,” he says. “About… About liking me.” 

“How do you know?” Renee asks, which is a fair question for all that it makes Andrew’s skin itch with _she doesn’t believe me, she doesn’t believe me._

So he explains what he’d seen last night, and watches her stiffen out of the corner of his eye. 

“So, do you want me to kill that guy for you?” she asks mildly. “Because I will totally kill that guy for you.” 

Andrew’s mouth twitches with the humor flickering in his throat. 

“I am not joking,” Renee says. “He’s been a dick to you.”

“I know,” says Andrew. “But something isn’t adding up. And Aaron mentioned that they might have been holding something over him, and he could be lying, and it might not matter either way, but…”

“But you’d like to find out for yourself.” 

Andrew nods. 

“Sounds like you’ll have to talk to him, then,” Renee says, mouth twisting distastefully. “Or, if not him then Katelyn.”

Andrew nods again, sullen this time, and rips up a handful of grass. 

“Maybe you should push up your appointments with Betsy.”

Andrew sighs. “I don’t even want to look at Aaron right now, let alone be stuck in a room talking to him for an hour.” 

“You live with him, though.” Renee shrugs. “It’ll probably be worth figuring out how to do that, at least.” 

Instead of sighing or nodding again, which seem like the only options in response to something so infuriatingly logical, Andrew stands, brushes his hands and jeans off, and waits for Renee to join him. He’d much rather resume getting knocked on his ass than continue to have this conversation.

Renee, of course, obliges.

* * *

Bee doesn’t have any open appointments prior to their usual Thursday session, so Andrew is on his own for the week. Still, though, he’s unwilling to let this whole thing lie until Thursday. He’s equally unwilling to speak to Neil unless absolutely necessary - whether or not Neil _was_ being blackmailed may have very little to do with whether or not Andrew can forgive or trust him ever again, and he has no desire to open _that_ particular can of worms if it can be avoided - so, Katelyn is somehow the preferable option. The thought is almost amusing. Almost. 

It takes him until Wednesday to track her down; probably Aaron warned her to keep a low profile. Probably that was smart. 

It’s the end of the school day, students flooding the halls after the last bell, and Andrew is standing in front of Katelyn’s locker. Waiting. 

When she finally ducks out of her last class of the day and hustles toward her locker, Andrew sees her pale at the sight of him, watches her steps falter; then her shoulders set and she strides forward with renewed determination, finally coming to a stop in front of him.

“Would you move so I can get into my locker?” she asks politely, not making eye contact. She’s taller than he is, staring at some point to the left and above Andrew’s head. 

“No,” Andrew says. 

Katelyn’s jaw tightens, and she sighs. “Is this about the thing with Neil? Because he’s already chewed me out for that, and-”

Well, that’s interesting.

“Chewed you out for what, exactly.” Flat, calm, impassive. Walls up, because if Katelyn wants to do _nonchalant_ , Andrew can match her. 

Katelyn sighs again - it’s an impressive sigh, to be sure, but Andrew is unmoved. 

“For- well- _you_ know what happened, Aaron said he told you,” she says, slumping. “He feels really bad, by the way - Aaron, I mean - and I’m not sure I do, because he _also_ told me that it wasn’t Nicky that was stopping us from dating at all, it was _you,_ and that seems super toxic to me, but that’s not the point. The _point_ is, Neil’s already bitched us out about how shitty what we did was, and I’m really not in the mood for another lecture, especially not from _you._ ” 

“Seems like he just wouldn’t have helped if he felt that strongly about it,” Andrew says. 

“ _Oh,_ ” says Katelyn, like realization is dawning. “I thought Aaron said he told you - about the - well, I guess he didn’t really know exactly what, but still - well. I… had something on Neil. Information he didn’t want getting out - and that, I do actually kind of feel bad about, because I didn’t realize how - well - hm. Neil wasn’t really a _willing_ participant.”

Andrew already knows that, though - or rather, it just confirms what Aaron told him. What he really _wants_ to know is what this big, terrible secret was that Neil was willing to totally fuck Andrew over for. For all that he knows he shouldn’t pry, for all that he wants to simply shut the door on this chapter of his life and leave Neil firmly in his rearview mirror - some sad, desperate corner of him wants to decide for himself if that secret was _worth it -_ whatever _worth it_ means - and that corner seems to be holding the reins. 

He steps to the side, and Katelyn immediately steps forward and starts twisting her combination into the lock. 

“What, did you find his nudes or something.”

Katelyn, head stuffed in her locker, actually snorts at that, the metallic echo of it faint amidst the hallway’s chatter. 

“No, no nudes,” she says. But when she withdraws from the locker and glances at Andrew she looks… distinctly uncomfortable. “But I really shouldn’t say more than that. I told him I wouldn’t, if he did what I asked, and - well - he did.” 

Of all the times for Katelyn, lying, selfish, heartless Katelyn, to be _honorable._

Andrew takes a step forward, one hand wrapped around the door to Katelyn’s locker. Her eyes widen, face paling rapidly; she’s heard the rumors about him, just as well as anyone else in Millport. She knows what he’s done, what he _will_ do - granted, Andrew’s acts of violence are usually preceded by a direct threat to his family, but Katelyn doesn’t know _that._ She swallows, hard. Takes a step back. 

“He did,” says Andrew. “I’d like to know _why._ ” 

“Neil… Well, Neil might tell you,” Katelyn says, clutching her textbooks to her chest, “if you ask. But I can’t. It’s not mine to tell. I promised.”

Andrew grunts as he slams her locker shut and walks away. He’s still not sold on forgiveness, but he does want answers. So he’ll have to talk to Neil. 

It takes until Thursday for Andrew to feel ready to do just that. Thursday, because he figures that at least if their conversation goes terribly, he’ll have his hour with Bee to do damage control before he’s forced to spend the subsequent hour making peace with his brother. Best to confine as much awfulness as possible to the same day, if at all possible. Not that this whole week hasn’t been terrible - he’s eaten dinner in his room every night since Sunday, to avoid sitting at the same table as Aaron, and though Nicky has tried to encourage them to make amends, he always stops short of forcing Andrew to do anything he’s truly averse to. Nicky and Erik are different, in that way, from other parents Andrew’s had; they always treat the twins like people and not happy family dolls that always have to get along and do as they’re told. Andrew has never appreciated that more than he has this week. Not that he'd ever say it out loud. He's been vulnerable enough recently.

Anyway.

He finds Neil after track practice, stretching on the grass. Neil sits apart from the rest of the track team, eyes downcast and underscored with smudges of purple. It rained, during lunch - not for long, but heavily enough that the earth is still wet as Andrew sits down besides him. The dampness soaking into his pants is unpleasant, but it’s too late to do anything about that now. 

Neil looks up at him, pitiful and confused, and Andrew’s chest squeezes with recognition, with comfort, his hindbrain still unused to the reality which is this: he knows nothing about Neil Josten, not really. But he’s going to fucking find out. 

“You,” Andrew says, calm, bored, raging, “have some explaining to do.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> renee: i have turned my back on my life of violence. i do not want to hurt people anymore  
> *one (1) bad thing happens 2 her very angry best friend who is fully capable of defending himself*  
> renee: i have no choice but to kill again  
> the amnt of time i spent writing and rewriting this chapter and HATING IT: unparalleled. the only reason i got it done at all is bc the only better thing i have to be doing than this is working on another fic that i was equally stumped on  
> anywhom. one chapter to go!!  
> come say hi on tumblr! @much-ado-about-exy


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